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SKETCHES 


OF 


IRISH CHARACTER. 

BY MRS. S. C. HALL 


ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 


P u 


NASHVILLE, TENN.. 

BLISHED BY J. LOCKEN. 

1858 . 













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CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


SUBJECTS. 

THE WISE THOUGHT 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 
Norah Clarey . . . . 

The Lovers 

Bannow Lasses . . 


PAG1 

... 5 


10 


ANNIE LESLIE 11 

The Rivals 15 

Alick the Traveller 30 

LARRY MOORE 31 

Larry lounging on the Sea Shore 33 

’ The Promontory of Bag-an-Bun 36 

KATE CONNER Kate’s arrival in London 37 

Kate telling her Story 44 


CAPTAIN ANDY The Outlaw’s Burial 

The Mill 


45 

56 


TAKE IT EASY The Fairy riding the Dragon-fly 57 

The Vision of Alice 62 

LILLY O’BRIAN Lilly O’Brian 63 

Lilly’s Interview with the Fisher 79 

The Lilly with her Blossoms 97 

PETER THE PROPHET Alice Mulvaney 98 

The Drowned Lover. 98 

The Party in the Green Lane Ill 

JACK THE SHRIMP Neptune rescuing Crab 112 

Gravestones in Bannow Church.. 119 

THE LAST OF THE LINE. . .Clavis signingthe Deed 120 

The Duel 147 

WE’LL SEE ABOUT IT Philip loitering at the Gate 148 

The Row with the Steward 151 

THE BANNOW POSTMAN.. . .The Postman and his Horse 152 

The Castle of Coolhull ,....171 

LUKE O’BRIAN The Castle of Enniscorthy 172 

Ferry Carrig Castle 177 

BLACK DENNIS The Home Dispensary 178 

The Castle on the Moor f 183 

MACGOII ARTY’S PETITION.. Mary at her Daughter’s Grave 184 

The Cross in the Churchyard 193 

FATHER MIKE The Priest’s Warning 194 

Old Bannow Church 215 


IV 


CONTENTS AND LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SUBJECTS. ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE 

OLD FRANK The Rescue from the Fairies 216 

The Temple at Craige 225 

MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. . Mary Ryan’s Daughter 226 

The Young Turf-cutter 226 

The Patient Watcher 245 

WOOING AND WEDDING. . . .Mark Conner at the Cottage Gate 246 

The Seven Castles of Clonmines 263 


THE FAIRY OF THE FORTH . Beckoning up the Gauger.. 264 

The Fairy Bagpiper 271 


THE RAPPAREE 


Freney’s Gallop 272 

The Rescue 291 


GERALDINE The Chapel of Our Lady 

At Prayers. . ' 


292 

295 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE Mabel’s Visit to Kate Ryley 296 

The Examination 317 


KELLY THE PIPER 


The Pattern Tent 318 

Chairing the Piper 333 


MASTER BEN 


The Schoolmaster 334 

The Schoolmaster’s Cabin 341 


INDEPENDENCE The Lecture to Shane Thurlough 

The Neglected 

HOSPITALITY Finding the Will 

Congratulations 


342 

349 

350 
369 


GOOD SPIRITS -AND BAD. . . .Bad Spirits.. 

Good Spirits 


370 

383 




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THE WISE THOUGHT. 

HE was sitting under the shadow of a fragrant lime 
tree, that overhung a very ancient well ; and, as the 
water fell into her pitcher, she was mingling with its 
music the tones of her “ Jew’s harp,” — the only in- 
strument upon which Norah Clary had learned to play. 
She was a merry maiden of “ sweet seventeen a 
rustic belle, as well as a rustic beauty, and a “ terri- 
ble coquette and, as she had what, in Scotland, they 
call a “ tocher,” — in England, a “ dowry,” and in Ire- 
land, a “ pretty penny o’ money,” it is scarcely ne- 
cessary to state, in addition, that she had — a bachelor. 
Whether the tune — which was certainly given in alto 
— was, or was not, designed as a summons to her 
lover, I cannot take upon myself to say ; but her lips 
and fingers had not been long occupied, before her 
lover was at her side. 

“ We may as well give it up, Morris Donovan,” she 

( 5 > 



THE WISE THOUGHT. 


6 

said, somewhat abruptly ; “ look, ’t would be as easy to twist the top off the great 
hill of Howth, as make father and mother agree about any one thing. They ’ve 
been playing the rule of contrary these twenty years ; and it ’s not likely they ’ll 
take a turn now.” 

“ It ’s mighty hard, so it is,” replied handsome Morris, “ that married people 
can’t draw together. Norah, darlint ! that wouldn’t be the way with us. It ’s 
one we ’d be in heart and sowl, and an example of love and ” 

“ Folly,” interrupted the maiden, laughing. “ Morris, Morris, we ’ve quarrelled 
a score o’ times already ; and a bit of a breeze makes life all the pleasanter. 
Shall I talk about the merry jig I danced with Phil Kennedy, or repeat what 
Mark Doolen said of me to Mary Grey ? — eh, Morris ?” 

The long black lashes of Norah Clary’s bright brown eyes almost touched 
her low, but delicately pencilled, brows, as she looked archly up at her lover — 
her lip curled with a half-playful, half-malicious smile ; but the glance was soon 
withdrawn, and the maiden’s cheek glowed with a deep and eloquent blush, when 
the young man passed his arm round her waist, and, pushing the curls from her 
forehead, gazed upon her with a loving, but mournful look. 

“ Leave joking, now, Norry ; God only knows how I love you,” he said, in 
a voice broken by emotion : “ I ’m yer equal, as far as money goes ; and no 
young farmer in the country can tell a better stock to his share than mine ; yet 
I don’t pretend to deserve you , for all that ; only, I can’t help saying that, when 
we love each other (now, don’t go to contradict me, Norry, because ye ’ve as 
good as owned it over and over again), and yer father agreeable, and all, to 
think that yer mother, just out of divilment, should be putting betwixt us, for no 
reason upon earth, only to * spite’ her lawful husband, is what sets me mad 
entirely, and shows her to be a good-for ” 

“ Stop, Mister Morris,” exclaimed Norah, laying her hand upon his mouth, so 
as effectually to prevent a sound escaping ; “ it ’s my mother ye ’re talking of, 
and it would be ill-blood, as well as ill-bred, to hear a word said against an own 
parent. Is that the pattern of yer manners, sir ; or did ye ever hear me turn 
my tongue against one belonging to you ?” 

“ I ask yer pardon, my own Norah,” he replied, meekly, as in duty bound ; 
“ for the sake o’ the lamb, we spare the sheep. Why not? — and I ’m not going 
to gainsay but yer mother •” 

“ The least said ’s the soonest mended !” again interrupted the impatient girl. 
“ Good even, Morris, and God bless ye ; they ’ll be after missing me within, and 
it ’s little mother thinks where I am.” 

“Norah, above all the girls at wake or pattern, I’ve been true to you. We 
have grown together, and, since ye were the height of a rose-bush, ye have been 
dearer to me than anything else on earth. Do, Norah, for the sake of our young 
hearts’ love, do think if there ’s no way to win yer mother over. If ye ’d take 
me without her leave, sure it ’s nothing I ’d care for the loss o’ thousands, let 
alone what ye ’ve got. Dearest Norah, think ; since you ’ll do nothing without 
her consent, do think — for once be serious, and don’t laugh.” 


THE WISE THOUGHT. 


7 

It is a fact, universally known and credited in the good barony of Bargy 
that Morris Donovan possessed an honest, sincere, and affectionate heart— brave 
as a lion, and gentle as a dove He was, moreover, the priest’s nephew, — un- 
derstood Latin as_well as the priest himself; and, better even than that, he was 
the beau — the Magnus Apollo, of the parish ; — a fine, noble-looking fellow, that 
all the girls (from the housekeeper’s lovely English niece at Lord Gort’s, down 
to little deaf Bess Mortican, the lame dress-maker) were regularly and despe- 
rately in love with : still, I must confess, he was, at times, a little stupid not 
exactly stupid either, but slow of invention, — would fight his way out of a thou- 
sand scrapes, but could never get peaceably out of one. No wonder, then, that, 
where fighting was out of the question, he was puzzled, and looked to the ready 
wit of the merry Norah for assistance. It was not very extraordinary that he 
loved the fairy creature — the sweetest, gayest, of all Irish girls; — light of 
heart, light of foot, light of eye; — now weeping like a child over a dead 
chicken, or a plundered nest; then dancing on the top of a hayrick, to the 
music of her own cheering voice ; — now coaxing her termagant mother, and 
anon comforting her henpecked father. Let no one suppose that I have over- 
drawn the sketch of my Bannow lass — for, although her native barony is that 
of Bargy, the two may be considered as wedded and become one. The por- 
traits appended to this story are, at least, veritable, and “from the life.” You 
will encounter such, and such only, in our district — neatly attired, with their 
white caps, when the day is too warm for bonnets — in short, altogether “ well- 
dressed.” 

“I’m not going to laugh, Morris,” replied the little maid, at last, after a 
very long pause; “I’ve got a wise thought in my head for once. His reve- 
rence, your uncle, you say, spoke to father — to speak to mother about it? 
I wonder (and he a priest) that he had n’t more sense ! Sure, mother was the 
man ; — but I ’ve got a wise thought. — Good night, dear Morris ; good night.” 

The lass sprang lightly over the fence into her own garden, leaving her 
lover perdu at the other side, without possessing an idea of what her “ wise 
thought” might be. When she entered the kitchen, matters were going on 
as usual — her mother bustling in style, and as cross “ as a bag of weasels.” 

“ Jack Clary,” said she, addressing herself to her husband, who sat quietly in 
the chimney-corner smoking his doodeen “ it’s well ye’ve got a wife who knows 
what’s what! God help me, I’ve little good of a husband, barring the name! 
Are ye sure Black Nell’s in the stable?” The sposo nodded. “The cow 
and the calf, had they fresh straw ?” Another nod. “ Bad cess to ye, can’t 
ye use yer tongue, and answer a civil question !” continued the lady. 

“ My dear,” he replied, “ sure one like you has enough talk for ten.” 

This very just observation was, like most truths, so disagreeable, that a 
severe storm would have followed, had not Norah stepped up to her father, 
and whispered in his ear, “ I don’t think the stable-door is fastened.” — Mrs. 
Clary caught the sound, and in no gentle terms, ordered her husband to attend 


8 


THE WISE THOUGHT. 


to the comforts of Black Nell. “I’ll go with father myself and see,” said 
Norah. “ That.’s like my own child, always careful,” observed the mother, as 
the father and daughter closed the door. 

“Dear father,” began Norah, “it isn’t altogether about the stable I wanted 
ye — but — but — the priest said something to ye to-day about — Morris Donovan.” 

“ Yes, darling, and. about yerself, my sweet Norry.” 

“ Did ye speak to mother about it ?” 

“No, darling, she’s been so cross all day. Sure, I go through a dale for 
pace and quietness. If I was like other men, and got drunk and wasted, it 
might be in rason ; but — As to Morris, she was very fond of the boy till she 
found that / liked him ; and then, my jewil, she turned like sour milk all in 
a minute. — I ’m afraid even the priest ’ll get no good of her.” 

“ Father, dear father,” said Norah, “ suppose ye were to say nothing about 
it, good or bad, and just pretend to take a sudden dislike to Morris, and let 
the priest speak to her himself, she’d come round.” 

“ Out of opposition to me, eh ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And let her gain the day, then ? — that would be cowardly,” replied the 
farmer, drawing himself up. “ No, I won’t.” 

“Father, dear, you don’t understand,” said the cunning lass “sure, ye’re 
for Morris; and when we are — that is, if — I mean — suppose — father, you 
know what I mean,” she .continued, and luckily the twilight concealed her 
blushes, — “ if that took place, it’s you that would have yer own way.” 

“ True for ye, Norry, my girl, true for ye ; I never thought of that before !” 
and, pleased with the idea of “ tricking” his wife, the old man fairly capered for 
joy. “ But stay a while — stay, asy, asy !” he recommenced ; “ how am I to 
manage ? Sure the priest himself will be here to-morrow morning early ; and 
he ’s out upon a station now — so there ’s no speaking with him ; — he ’s no way 
quick, either — we ’ll be bothered entirely if he comes in on a suddent .” 

“ Leave it to me, dear father — leave it all to me,” exclaimed the animated 
girl ; “ only pluck up a spirit, and, whenever Morris’s name is mentioned, 
abuse him — but not with all yer heart , father — only from the teeth out.” 

When they re-entered, the fresh-boiled potatoes sent a warm, curling steam 
to the very rafters of the lofty kitchen; they were poured out into a large 
wicker kish, and, on the top of the pile, rested a plate of coarse white salt; 
noggins of butter-milk were filled on the dresser ; and, on a small round table, 
a cloth was spread, and some delf plates awaited the more delicate repast 
which the farmer’s wife was herself preparing. 

“What’s for supper, mother?” inquired Norah, as she drew her wheel 
towards her, and employed her fairy foot in whirling it round. 

“ Plaguy snipeens” she replied; “bits o’ bog chickens, that you’ve always 
such a fancy for ; — Barney Leary kilt them himself.” 

a “ So 1 did,” said Barney, grinning ; “ and that stick wid a hook, of Morris 
Donovan’s, is the finest thing in the world for knocking ’em down.” 


THE WISE THOUGHT. 


9 

** ^ Morris Donovan’s stick touched them, they shan’t come here,” said the 
farmer, striking the poor little table such a blow, with his clenched hand, as 
made not only it, but Mrs. Clary, jump. 

“ And why so,. pray?” asked the dame. 

“ Because nothing belonging to Morris, let alone Morris himself, shall 
come into this house,” replied Clary: “he’s not to my liking any how, and 
there ’s no good in his bothering here after what he won’t get.” 

“ Excellent !” thought Norah. 

“ Lord save us !” ejaculated Mrs. Clary, as she placed the grilled snipes 
on the table, “what’s come to the man?” Without heeding his resolution, 
she was proceeding to distribute the savoury “ birdeens,” when, to her 
astonishment, her usually tame husband threw dish and its contents into the 
flames ; the good woman absolutely stood for a moment, aghast. The calm, 
however, was not of long duration. She soon rallied, and commenced hos- 
tilities : “ How dare you, ye spalpeen, throw away any of God’s mate after 
that fashion, and I to the fore ? What do you mane, I say ?” 

“ I mane that nothing touched by Morris Donovan shall come under this roof ; 
and if I catch that girl of mine looking at the same side o’ the road he walks 
on, I’ll tear the eyes out of her head, and send her to a nunnery !” 

“ You will ! and dare you to say that to my face, to a child o’ mine ! 
You will — will ye? — we’ll see, my boy! I’ll tell ye what, if I like, Morris 
Donovan shall come into this house, and what ’s more, be master of this house ; 
and that ’s what you never had the heart to be yet, ye poor ould snail !” So 
saying, Mistress Clary endeavoured to rescue from the fire the hissing remains 
of the burning snipes. Norah attempted to assist her mother; but Clary, 
lifting her up, somewhat after the fashion of an eagle raising a golden wren 
with its claw, fairly put her out of the kitchen. This was the signal for fresh 
hostilities. Mrs. Clary stormed and stamped: and Mr. Clary persisted in 
abusing, not only Morris, but Morris’s uncle, Father Donovan, until, at last, the 
farmer’s help mate swore , ay, and roundly too, by cross and saint, that before 
the next sunset, Norah Clary should be Norah Donovan. I wish you could have 
seen Norry’s eye, dancing with joy and exultation, as it peeped through the 
latch-hole ; — it sparkled more brightly than the richest diamond in our monarch’s 
crown, for it was filled with hope and love. 

The next morning, before the sun was fully up, he was throwing his earlv 
beams over the glowing cheek of Norah Clary; for her “wise thought” had 
prospered, and she was hastening to the trysting-tree, where “by chance,” 
either morning or evening, she generally met Morris Donovan. I don’t know 
how it is, but the moment the course of true love “ runs smooth,” it becomes 
very uninteresting, except to the parties concerned. So it is now left for me 
only to say, that the maiden, after a due and proper time consumed in teazing 
and tantalizing her intended, told him her saucy plan and its result. And the 
lover hastened upon the wings of love (which I beg my readers clearly to 
understand are swifter and stronger in Ireland than in any other country), to 
2 


fO 


THE WISE THOUGHT. 


apprize the priest of the arrangement, well knowing that his reverence loved his 
nephew, and niece that was to be (to say nothing of the wedding supper, and the 
profits arising therefrom), too well, not to aid their merry jest. 

What bustle, what preparation, what feasting, what dancing, gave the coun 
try folk enough to talk about during the happy Christmas holidays, I cannot 
now describe. The bride, of course, looked lovely and “ sheepish and the 
bridegroom — but bridegrooms are always uninteresting. One fact, however, 
is worth recording. When Father Donovan concluded the ceremony, before 
the bridal kiss had passed, Farmer Clary, without any reason that his wife could 
discover, most indecorously sprang up, seized a shilelah of stout oak, and 
whirling it rapidly over his head, shouted, “ Carry me out 1 by the powers, she *s 
beat ! we ’ve won the day ! — ould Ireland forever ! Success, boys ! she *s beat 
— she ’s beat !” — The priest, too, seemed vastly to enjoy this extemporaneous 
effusion, and even the bride laughed outright. Whether the good wife discovered 
the plot or not, I never heard ; but of this I am certain, that the joyous Norah 
never had reason to repent her ‘‘ wise thought.” 



ANNIE LESLIE. 


NNIE LESLIE was neither a belle nor a beauty — 
a gentlewoman, nor yet an absolute peasant — “ a for- 
tune,” nor entirely devoid of dower : — although born 
upon a farm that adjoined my native village of Bannow, 
she might almost have been called a flower of many 
lands; for her mother was a Scot, her father an 
Englishman; one set of grandparents Welsh — and it 
was said that the others were (although I never be- 
lieved it, and always considered it a gossiping story) 
Italians, or foreigners, “from beyant the salt sea.” 
It was a very charming pastime to trace the different 
countries in Annie’s sweet, expressive countenance. 
Ill-natured people said she had a red, Scottish head, 
which I declare to be an absolute story. The maiden’s 
hair was not red ; it was a bright chestnut, and glow- 
ing as a sunbeam — perhaps, in particular lights, it 
might have had a tinge — but, nonsense ! it was anything but red ; the cheek- 
bone was, certainly, elevated ; yet who ever thought of that, when gazing on 
the soft cheek, now delicate as the bloom on the early peach — now purely car- 
nationed, as if the eloquent colour longed to eclipse the beauty of the black, 
lustrous eyes, that were shaded by long, long eyelashes, delicately turned up at 
the points, as if anxious to act as conductors to my young friend’s merry 
glances, of which, however, I must confess, she was usually chary enough? 
Her figure was, unfortunately, “ of the Principality,” being somewhat of the 
shortest ; but her fair skin, and small, delicate mouth, told of English descent. 
Her father was a respectable farmer, who had been induced, by some circum- 
stance or other, to settle in Ireland ; and her mother — but what have I to do 
with either her father or her mother, just now ? 

The sun-fires had faded in the west, and Annie was leaning on the neat 
green gate that led to her cottage ; her eyes wandering down the branching 
lane, then to the softening sky, and not unfrequently to a little spotted dog, 
Phillis by name, who sat close to her mistress’s feet, looking upwards, and 
occasionally raising one ear, as if she expected somebody to join their party. 
It was the full and fragrant season of hay-making, and Annie had borne her 
part in the cheerful and pleasant toil. 

A blue muslin kerchief was sufficiently open to display her well-formed 
throat ; one or two wilful ringlets had escaped from under her straw hat, and 
twisted themselves into very picturesque, coquettish attitudes, shaded, but not 

( 11 ) 



12 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


hidden, by the muslin folds ; her apron was of bright check ; her short cotton 
gown, pinned in the national three-cornered fashion behind, and her petticoat 
of scarlet stuff, displayed her small and delicately turned ankle to much advan- 
tage. She held a bunch of mixed wild flowers in her hand, and her fingers, 
naturally addicted to mischief, were dexterously employed in scattering the 
petals to the breeze, which sported them amongst the long grass. 

“ Down, Phillis ! — down, miss !” said she, at last, to the little dog, who, 
weary of rest, stood on its hind legs, to kiss her hand ; “ down, do, ye ’re 
always merry when I am sad, and that’s not kind of ye.” The animal obeyed, 
and remained very tranquil, until its mistress unconsciously murmured to her- 
self — “Do I really love him?” Again she looked down the lane, and then, 
after giving a very destructive pull to one of the blossoms of a wild rose, that 
clothed the hedge in beauty, repeated, somewhat louder, the words, “ Do I, in- 
deed, love him ?” 

“ Never say the word twice — ye do, ye little rogue !” replied a voice, that 
sent an instantaneous gush of crimson over the maiden’s cheek — while from 
amid a group of fragrant elder-trees which grew out of the mound that encom- 
passed the cottage, sprang a tall, graceful youth, who advanced towards the 
blushing maiden. 

I am sorry for it, but it is, nevertheless, an incontrovertible fact, that 
women young and old — some more, and some less — are all naturally perverse ; 
they cannot, I believe, help it ; but their so being, although occasionally very 
amusing to themselves, is, undoubtedly, very trying to their lovers, whose re- 
monstrances on the subject, since the days of Adam, might as well have been 
given to the winds. 

It so happened that James McCleary was the very person Annie Leslie was 
thinking about — the one of all others she wished to see ; yet the love of tor- 
menting, assisted, perhaps, by a little maiden coquetry, prompted her first to 
curl her pretty Grecian nose, and then to bestow a hearty cuff on her lover’s 
cheek, as he attempted to salute her hand. 

“ Keep your distance, sir, and don’t make so free !” said the pettish lady. 

“ Keep my distance, Annie ! Not make so free !” echoed James ; “ an’ ye, 
jist this minute, after talking about loving me !” 

“ Loving you, indeed ! Mister James McCleary, it was yer betters , I was 
thinking of, sir ; I hope I know myself too well for that !” 

“ My betters, Annie ! — what’s come over ye ? Surely ye haven’t forgot that 
yer father has as good as given his consint ; and though yer mother is partial to 
Andrew Furlong — the tame negur! — -jist because he’s got a bigger house (sure, 
it’s a Public, and can’t be called his own), and a few more guineas than me, and 
never thinks of his being greyer than his ould grey mare — yet she’ll come 
round; let me alone to manage the women — (now, don’t look angry) — and 
did n’t yer own sweet mouth say it, not two hours ago, down by the loch ? — and, 
by the same token, Annie, there’s the beautiful curl I cut off with the reaping- 
hook — that, however ve trate me, shall stay next to my heart, as long as it bates 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


13 


— and, oh, Annie ! as ye sat on the mossy stone, 1 thought I never saw ye look 
so beautiful — with that very bunch of flowers that ye ’ve been pulling to 
smithereens, resting on yer lap. And it wasn’t altogether what ye said, but 
what ye looked, that put the life in me ; though ye did say — ye know ye did — 
* James,’ says you, ‘I hate Andrew Furlong, that I do, and I’ll never marry 
him as long as grass grows or water runs, that I won’t.’ Now, sure, Annie, 
dear, sweet Annie ! — sure ye’re not going aginst yer conscience, and the word 
o’ true love.” 

“ Sir,” interrupted Annie, “ I don’t like to be found fault with. Andrew 
Furlong is, what my mother says, a well-to-do, dacent man, staid and steady. 
I’ll trouble ye for my curl, Mister James — clever as ye are at managing the 
women, may-be ye can’t manage me.” 

James had been very unskilful in his last speech; he ought not to have 
boasted of his managing powers, but to have put them in practice : the fact, 
however, was that, though proverbially sober, the fatigue of hay-making, and 
two or three “ noggins” of Irish grog, had, in some degree, bewildered his intel- 
lects since Annie’s return from the meadow. He looked at her for a moment, 
drew the long tress of hair half out of his bosom, then replaced it, buttoned his 
waistcoat to the throat, as if determined nothing should tempt it from him, and 
said, in a subdued voice — 

“ Annie, Annie Leslie ! — like a darlint, don’t be so fractious — for your sake 
—for ” 

“ My sake, indeed, sir ! — My sake ! — I ’m very much obliged to you, very 
much, Mister James ; but let me tell ye, ye think a dale too much of yerself to 
be speaking to me after that fashion, and ye inside my own gate ; if ye were 
outside , I’d tell ye my mind; but I know better manners than to insult any one 
at my own door-stone: it’s little other people know about dacent breeding, 
or they’d not abuse people’s friends before people’s faces, Mister James 
McCleary.” 

“ I see how it is, Miss Leslie,” replied James, really angry : “ ye ’ve resolved 
to sell yerself, for yer board and lodging, to that grate cask of London porter, 
Andrew Furlong by name, and a booby by nature ; but I ’ll not stay in the place 
to witness yer parjury — I ’ll go to sea, or — I ’ll — ” 

“Ye may go where ye like,” responded the maiden, who now thought her- 
self much aggrieved and injured, “ and the sooner the better !” She threw the 
remains of the faded nosegay from her, and opened the green gate at the same 
instant — the gate which, not ten minutes before, she had rested on, thinking of 
James McCleary — thinking that he was the best wrestler, the best hurler, the 
best dancer, and the most sober lad in the country ; — thinking, moreover, that 
he was as handsome, if not as genteel, as the young ’squire ; and wondering if 
he would always love her as dearly as he did then. Yet, in her perversity, she 
flung back the gate for the faithful-minded to pass from her cottage, careless of 
consequences, and, at the moment, really believing that she loved him not. So 


14 ANNIE LESLIE. 

much for a wilful woman, before she knows the value of earth’s greatest trea- 
sure AN HONEST HEART. 

“ Since it ’s come to this,” said poor James, “ any how, bid me good-bye, 
Annie. — What, not one ‘ God be wid' ye,’ to him who will soon be on the salt 
— salt sea !” But Annie looked more angry than before ; thinking, while he 
spoke, that he would come back fast enough to her window next morning, bring- 
ing fresh grass for her kid, or food for her young linnets, or, perchance, flowers 
to deck her hair ; or (if he luckily met Peggy, the fisher,) a new blue silk necker- 
chief as a peace-offering. 

“ Well, God’s blessing be about ye, Annie; and may ye never feel what I 
do now !” So saying, the young man rushed down the green lane, frighting 
the wood-pigeons from their repose, and pitting to flight the timid hare and 
tender leveret, who sought their evening meal where the dew fell thickly, and 
the clover was most luxuriant. There was a fearful reality about the youth’s 
farewell that startled the maiden, obstinate as she was ; — her heart beat vio- 
lently, and the demon of coquetry was overpowered by her naturally affec- 
tionate feelings. She called, faintly at first, “ James, James, dear James and 
poor little Phillis scampered down the lane, as if she comprehended her mis- 
tress’s wish. Presently, Annie was certain she heard footsteps approaching;! 
her first movement was to spring forward, and her next (alas, for coquetry !) to 
retire into the parlour, and await the return of her lover ; — “ what she wished 
to be true, love bade her believe ;” there she stood, her eyes freed from their 
tears, and turned from the open window. Presently, the gate was unlatched ; 
in another moment a hand softly pressed her arm, and a deep-draw T n sigh broke 
upon her ear. 

“ He is very sorry,” thought she, “ and so am I.” She turned round, and 
beheld the good-humoured, rosy face of mine host of the Public ; his yellow 
bob-wig evenly placed over his grey hair ; his Sunday suit well brushed ; and 
his embroidered waistcoat (pea-green ground, with blue roses and scarlet lilies) 
covering, by its immense lapelles, no very juvenile rotundity of figure. Poor 
Annie ! she was absolutely dumb : had Andrew been a horned owl, she could 
not have shrunk with more horror from his grasp. Her silence afforded her 
senior lover an opportunity of uttering, or rather growling forth, his “pro- 
posal.” “Ye see, Miss Leslie, I see no reason why we two shouldn’t be 
married, because I have more regard for ye, tin to one, than any young fellow 
could have : for I am a man of experience, and know wrong from right, and 
right from wrong — which is all one. Yer father, but more especially ver mo- 
ther (who has oceans of sense, for a woman), are for me ; and, beautiful as ye 
are, and more beautiful, for sartin, than any girl in the land, yet ye can’t know 
what ’s good for ye as well as they ! And ye shall have a jaunting-car — a bran 
new jaunting-car of yer own, to go to mass or church, as may suit yer con- 
science, for I ’d be far from putting a chain upon ye, barring one of roses, 
which * Cupid waves,’ as the song says, ‘ for all true constant loviers.’ Now, 
Miss, machree, it being all settled — for sure ye’re too wise to refuse sich an 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


15 



offer!— here, on my two bare knees, in the moonbames— that Romeyo swore 
by, in the play I saw when I was as good as own man to an honourable mem- 
ber o’ parliament — (it was in this service he learned to make Long speeches, on 
which he prided himself greatly) — do I swear to be to you a kind and faithful 
husband — and true to you and you alone ” 


Mr. Andrew sank slowly on his knees, for the sake of comfort resting his 
elbows on the window-sill, and took forcible possession of Annie’s hand, who, 
angry, mortified, and bewildered, hardly knew, in what set terms to vent her 
displeasure. Just at this crisis, the garden-gate opened; and little Phillis, who, 
by much suppressed growling, had manifested her wrath at the clumsy courtship 
of the worthy host, sprang joyously out of the window. Before any alteration 
could take place in the attitudes of the parties, James McCleary stood before 
them, boiling with jealousy and rage. “ So, Miss Leslie — a very pretty man- 
ner you ’ve treated me in! — and it was for that carcase (and he pushed his 
foot against Andrew Furlong), that ye trampled me like the dust; it was be- 
cause he has a few more bits o’ dirty bank notes, that he scraped by being a 
lick-plate to an unworthy mimbei, who sould his country to the Union and Lord 
Castlereagh : but ye ’ll sup sorrow for it — ye will, Annie Leslie, for yer love is 
wid me, bad as ye are ; yer cheek has blushed, yer eye has brightened, yer 
heart has bate for me, as it never will for you , ye foolish, foolish ould cratur, 
who thinks the finest — the holiest feeling that God gives us, can be bought with 


16 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


goold ! But I am done ; as ye have sowed, Annie, so ye may reap. I 
forgive ye — though my heart — my heart — is torn — almost, almost broken ; for 
I thought ye faithful — I was wound up in ye — ye were the very core of my heart 

— and now ” The young man pressed his head against a cherry-tree, whose 

wide-spreading branches overshadowed the cottage. Annie, much affected, 
rushed into the garden, and took his hand affectionately ; he turned upon her a 
withering look, for the jealous fit was waxing stronger. 

“ What ! do ye want to make more sport of me to please yer young and hand- 
some lover ? Oh ! that ever I should throw ye from me ?’ He flung back her 
hand, and turned to the gate ; but Andrew, the gallant Andrew, thought it be- 
hoved him to interfere when his lady-love was treated in such a disdainful man- 
ner ; and, after having, with his new green silk handkerchief, carefully dusted 
the knees of his scarlet plush breeches, came forward : 

“ I take it that that ’s a cowardly thing for you to do, James McCleary — a 
cow ” 

“ What do you say V 9 vociferated James, whose passion had now found an 
object to vent itself on — “ did you dare call me a coward 2" He seized the old 
man by the throat, and, griping him as an eagle would a land-tortoise, held him 
at arm’s length : “ Look ye, ye fat ould calf, if ye were my equal in age or 
strength, it is n’t talking to ye I ’d be ; but I ’d scorn to illtrate a man of yer 
years — though I ’d give a thousand pounds this minute that ye were young 
enough for a fair fight, that I might have the glory to break every bone in yer 
body — but there !” — He flung his weighty captive from him with so much vio- 
lence, that mine host found himself extended amid a quantity of white-heart 
cabbages ; while poor James sprang amid the elder-trees, which before had been 
his place of happy concealment, and rushed away. 

Annie stood erect under the shadow of the cherry-tree, against which James 
had rested, and the rays of the clear, full moon, flickering through the foliage, 
showed that her face was pale and still as marble. In vain did Phillis jump and 
lick her hand ; in vain did Andrew vociferate, in tender accents, from the cab- 
bage-bed where he lay, trying first to turn upon one side, and then on the other 
— “ Will no one take pity on me V 9 — “ Will nobody help me up?’ There stood 
Annie, wondering if the scene was real, and if all the misery she endured could 
possibly have originated with herself. She might have remained there much 
longer, had not her father and mother returned from the meadows, where they 
had been distributing the usual dole of spirits to their barelegged labourers. 
“ Hey, mercy, and what ’s the matter noo 2" exclaimed the old Scotch lady ; 
“why, Annie, ye ’re clean daft for certain; and, good man Andrew! what has 
happened you, that ye ’re rubbing your clothes with your bit napkin, like a fury ? 
Hey ! mercy me, if my beautiful kail isn’t perfectly ruined, as if a hail hogshead 
of yill had been row’d over it ! Speak, ye young hizzy !” — and she shook her 
daughter’s arm — “ what is the matter 2" 

“ Annie,” said her less eloquent father ; “ tell me all about it, love ; how 
pale you are!” He led his child affectionately into the little parlour, while 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


17 

Andrew, with a doleful tone and gesture, related to the “ gude-wife” the whole 
story, as far as he was concerned. The poor girl’s feelings were, at length, 
relieved by a passionate burst of tears ; and, sobbing on her father’s bosom, she 
told the truth, and confessed it was her love of tormenting that had caused all 
the mischief. 

“ I do believe,” said the honest Englishman, “ all you women are the same. 
Your mother was nearly as bad in our courting days. James is too hot and 
too hasty — rapid in word and action ; and, knowing him as you do, you were 
wrong to trifle with him ; but there, love, I must, I suppose, go and find him, 
and make all right again ; shall I, Annie ?” 

“ Father!” exclaimed the girl, hiding her face in that safe resting-place, a 
parent’s bosom. 

“ Send old Andrew off, and bring James back to supper — eh?” 

“ Dear father !” 

" And you will not be perverse, but make sweet friends again ?” 

“ Dear, dear father !” 

The good man set off on his embassy, first warning his wife not to scold 
Annie ,* adding, somewhat sternly, he would not permit her to be sold to any 
one. To which speech, had he waited for it, he would doubtless have received 
a lengthened reply. 

As Mr. Leslie proceeded down the lane I have so often mentioned, he en- 
countered a man well known in the country by the soubriquet of “ Alick the 
Traveller,” who, with his wearied donkey, was in search of a place of rest. 
Alick was a person of great importance, known to every body, high and low, 
rich and poor, in the province of Leinster : he was an amusing, cunning, good- 
tempered fellow, who visited the gentlemen’s houses as a hawker of various 
fish, particularly oysters, which he procured from the far-famed Wexford beds ; 
and, after disposing of his cargo, he was accustomed to reload his panniers 
from our cockle-strand of Bannow, which is equally celebrated for that delicate 
little fish. Neither shoes nor stockings did Alick wear ; no, he carried them 
in his hand, and never put them on, until he got within sight of the genteel 
houses; — “he’d be long sorry to give dacent shoes or stockings such usage: 
sure his feet were well used to the stones !” His figure was tall and erect ; 
and the long stick of sea-weed, with which he urged poor Dapple’s speed, was 
thrown over his shoulder with the careless air that, in a well-dressed man, would 
be called elegant. A weather-beaten chateau de paille shaded his rough but 
agreeable features ; and stuck on one side of it, in the twine which served as a 
hat-band, were a “ cutty pipe,” and a few sprigs of beautifully tinted sea-weed 
and delisk, forming an appropriate, but singular garniture. He was whistling 
loudly on his way, and cheering his weary companion, occasionally, by kind 
words of encouragement. 

“ God save ye, this fine evening, Mr. Leslie ; I was just thinking of you, 
and all yer good family, which I hope is hearty, as well as the woman that 
owns ye. And I was just saying to myself that, may-be ye’d let me and Ihe 
3 


18 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


baste stay in the corner to-night, for I’ve a power o’ beautiful fish, and I want 
to be early among the gentry. But if the mistress likes a taste of news, or a 
rattling hake — ” 

“Alick,” said Leslie, who knew by experience, the difficulty of stopping 
his tongue “when once it was set a going,” — “go to the house; and there’s a 
hearty welcome — a good supper and clean straw for ye both. But tell me, have 
you seen James McCleary this evening ?” 

“Och! is it James ye’re after? There’s a beautiful lobster! — let Kenny, 
Paddy Kenny (may-be ye don’t know Paddy, the fishmonger, wid the blue door 
at the corner of the ould market in Wexford), let Paddy Kenny bate that ! ” 

“ But James McCleary ” 

“ True for ye, he’ll be glad to see ye. Now, Mister Leslie, tell us the truth, 
did ye ever see sich crabs as thim in England? Where ’ud they get them, and 
they so far from the sea ?” 

“ I want ” 

“ I humbly ax yer pardon — I saw him jist now cutting off in that way, as 
straight as a conger eel — I had one t’other day, Mister Leslie (it’s as true as 
that ye ’re standing there), it weighed ” 

“ What ? — did he go across the fields in that direction ?” 

“ Is it he ? — troth, no, I skinned him as nate ” 

“ Skinned who? — James McCleary?” 

“ Och, no ; the conger.” 

“Will you tell me in what direction you saw James McCleary go? — the 
misfortune of all Irishmen is, that they answer one question by asking another.” 

“ I don’t like ye to be taking the country down, after that fashion, Mister 
Leslie; it’s bad manners, and I can’t see any misfortune about it; and if I did, 
there’s no good in life of making a cry about it; — but there’s an illegant cod ! — 
there’s a whopper ! — there’s been no rest or peace wid that lump of a fellow all 
the evening — whacking his tail in the face of every fish in the basket ; I ’ll let 
the misthress have him a bargain if she likes, jist to get rid of him — the tory !” 

Leslie at last found that his questions were useless ; so he motioned “ Alick 
the Traveller” to his dwelling, and proceeded on his way to James’s cottage ; — 
while Alick, gazing after him half muttered, “There’s no standing thim 
Englishmen ; the best of them are so dead like — not a word have they in their 
head ; not the least taste in life for conversation. Catch James ! — I hope it 
didn’t turn out bad, though,” he continued, in a still lower tone: “what I said 
awhile agone was all out o’ innocence, for a bit o’ fun wid the ould one.” He 
turned and, for a moment, watched the path taken by Leslie, then proceeded 
on his way, muttering — “ ’tis very quare, though.” 

At the door of James McCleary’s cottage, Leslie encountered the young 
man’s mother. “ I was jist going to your place to ask what’s come over my 
boy,” said she ; “ I can’t make him out ; he came in, in such a fluster, about tin 
minutes agone. and kicked up sich a bobbery in no time : floostered over his 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


19 

clothes in the press, cursed all the women in the world, bid God bless me, and 
set off, full speed, like a wild deer, across the country.’' 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed Leslie. 

“ I know, Mr. Leslie, that my boy has been keeping company wid your girl ; 
and I have nothing to say agin her ; she has a dale o’ the lady about her, yet is 
humble and modest as any lamb: but I think, may-be, they’ve had a bit of a 
ruction about some footy thing or other ; but men can’t bear to be contradicted, 
though I own it’s good for them, and more especially James, who has a dale 
of his father in him, who I had to manage (God rest his sowl !) like any babby. 
However, James has too much sense to go far, I’m thinking — only to his aunt’s 
husband’s daughter, by the Black-water, fancying may-be, to bring Annie round ; 
and so I was going to see her, to know the rights of it.” 

The kind-hearted farmer told her nearly all he knew, with fatherly feeling 
glossing over Annie’s pettishness as much as he possibly could. Mrs. McCleary 
remained firm in her opinion that he had only gone down to the Black-water, 
and would return the next day. But Leslie’s mind foreboded evil. When he 
arrived at home, he found “ Alick the Traveller” comfortably seated in the large 
chimney-corner — a cheerful turf fire casting its light, sometimes in broad 
masses, sometimes in brilliant flashes, over the room : the neat, white cloth 
was laid for supper ; and the busy dame was seated opposite the itinerant man 
of fish, laughing long and loudly at his quaint jokes and merry stories. Annie 
was looking vacantly from the door that was shut, to the window, through 
which she could not see ; and Phillis was stretched along the comfortable hearth, 
rousing herself, occasionally, to reprimand the rudeness of a small, white kitten, 
Annie’s particular pet, which obstinately persisted in playing with the long, 
silky hairs of the spaniel’s bushy tail. When Leslie entered, the poor girl’s 
heart beat violently ; and the colour rose and faded almost at the same moment. 
She busied herself about household matters, to escape 'observation ; broke the 
salt-cellar in endeavouring to force it into the cruet-stand, and verified the old 
proverb, “ spill the salt, and get a scolding,” for the mother did scold in no 
measured terms, at the destruction of what the careless hizzy had broken. 
“ Did ye na ken that it had been used for twenty years and mair V 9 she 
reiterated ; “ and did Christian woman ever see sic folly, to force a broad salt, 
of thick glass, into a place that can na mair than haud a wee bottle ? The girl’s 
daft, and that’s the end on’t.” Notwithstanding the jests of Alick, the evening 
passed heavily : Annie complained of illness, and went soon to bed ; and as her 
father kissed her, at the door of her little chamber, he felt that her cheek was 
moist and cold. Mrs. Leslie soon followed; and the farmer replenished his 
long pipe as Alick added fresh tobacco to his stumpy one. “ I ’m sorry to see 
Miss Annie so ill,” said the honest hawker, in a kindly tone ; “ but this time all 
the girls- get tired at the hay-making. Well, it bates all, to think how you 
farmers can be continted jist wid looking on the sky, and watching the crops, 
over and over again, in the same place ! I might as well lie down and die at 
onst, as not keep going from place to place. One sees a dale more o’ life, and 


20 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


one sees more o’ the tricks o’ the times. Och, but the world's a fine world, 
only for the people that’s in it! — it’s them spiles it. — I had something to say to 
you, Mister Leslie, very partiklar, that I came to the knowledge of quite inno- 
cent. Ye mind that Mister Mullager, Maley, as he calls himself for the sake 
of the English , has been playing the puck wid Lord Clifford’s tinnants, as 
might be expected ; for his mother was a chimbley sweeper, that had the luck 
to marry a dacent boy enough, only a little turned three-score ; and thin this 
beautiful scoundrel came into the world, and, betwixt the two, they left him the 
power and all o’ hard yellow ginnees. Now, he being desperate ’cute, got into 
my Lord’s employ, being only a slip of a boy at the time. Well, lords, to my 
thinking (barring the ould ancient ones), are only foolish sort of min, any how 
— I could go bail that my Lord Clifford hadn’t a full knowledge box, any way ; 
and so, through one sly turn or other, this fellow bothered him so, and threw 
dust in his eyes, and wheedled him, that, ye know, at last he comes the gintle- 
man over us ; and tould me t’other day, that as fine a jacky-dorey as iver ye set 
yer two good-looking eyes on, was nothing but a flukq — the ignorant baste ! 
Fine food for sharks he’d be; only the cratur that ’ud ate him must be hungry 
enough — the thief o’ the world !” 

“ What has all this to do with me, Alick ?” inquired the Englishman, steadily, 
while the traveller, incensed at the remembrance of the insult offered to his fish, 
scattered the burning ashes out of his cutty pipe, to the no small consternation 
of the crickets — merry things! — who had come to the hearth-stone to regale 
on cold potatoes. “ I know,” he continued, “ that the agent, or whatever he 
calls himself, is no friend of mine. When my landlord came to the country, he 
did me the honour to ask my opinion ; I showed him the improvements, that I, 
as an English farmer, thought might be profitable to the estate ; he desired me 
to give in an estimate of the expense ; I did so ; but the honest agent, or more 
properly speaking, middle-man, had given one in before. His Lordship found 
that, by my arrangements, the expense was lessened one-half; but Maley 
persuaded my Lord that his plans were best, and so ” 

44 Ay,” interrupted Alick, “couldn’t ye have been contint to mind yer farm, 
and not be putting English plans of improvement into an Irish head, where it’s 
so hard to make them fit ? When the devil was civil, and, like a jintleman, 
held out his paw to ye, why didn’t ye make yer bow, and take it? — sure, that 
had been only manners, let alone sense — don’t look so bleared! What, ye 
don’t understand me ?” Alick advanced his body slowly forward, rested his 
elbows on the small table, pressed his face almost close to Leslie’s, whose turn 
it was, now, to lay down his pipe, and slowly said, in a firm, audible whisper, — 

4 ‘ Whin Tim Mullager, the curse o’ the poor — the thing in man’s shape, bu* 
widout a heart — met ye one evening, by chance as you thought, at the far corner 
of the very field ye cut to-day, what tempted ye (for ye mind the time — my 
Lord thought a dale about yer English notions thin), whin he axed ye, as sweet 
as new milk, to join him in that very estimate unknownst to my Lord, and said, 
ye mind, that it might be made convanient to the both o’ ye, and a dale more 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


21 

to the same purpose ; and instead of seeming to come in, my jewel ! you talked 
something about ’tegrity and honour, which was as hard for him to make out as 
priest’s Latin ; and walked off as stately as the tower of Hook.” 

“ But I never mentioned a syllable of his falsehood to do him injury,” ex 
claimed the astonished farmer ; “ I never breathed it, even, to Lord Clifford.” 

“And more fool you — I ax yer pardon, but more fool you — that was yer 
time; and it was the time for more than that — it was the time for ye to get a 
new laase upon the ould terms, and not to be trusting to lords’ promises, which 
are as asy broken as anybody else ’s.” 

“ You are a strange fellow, Alick ; how did you know anything about my 
lease ? At all events, though it is expired, I am safe enough, for I am sure that 
even Maley could not wish a better tenant.” 

“ A better tinant !” responded Alick, fairly laughing : “ a better tinant ! — 
fait, that’s not bad ! — What does he care whether ye’re a good or bad tinant to 
my Lord? — doesn’t he want — man alive! — to have ye body and sowl? — the 
rig’lar rint, to be sure, for the master ; all fair ; — the little dooshure for himself ; 
the saaling money, if a laase to the fore ; and a five-pound note, not amiss as a 
civility to his bit of a wife ; thin the duty-hens, duty-turkeys, duty-geese, duty- 
pigs ; — the spinning and the knitting : — sure, if my Lord or my Lady isn’t to the 
fore, they ’ll save them the trouble of looking after sich things ; and they, ye 
know, get the cash — that is, as much as the agent chooses to say is their due — 
and spend it in foreign parts, widout thinking o’ the tears and the blood it costs 
at home. Och, Mr. Leslie! it’s no wonder if we’d have the black heart to 
sich as them I” 

Leslie, for the first time of his life, felt a doubt as to the nature of the 
situation in which he was placed : he looked around upon the fair white walls, 
so dear, so very dear, to the purest feelings of his heart ; every object had a 
claim on his affections, — even the long wooden peg, upon which his great coat 
hung behind the door, was as valuable to him as if it were of gold. 

“ I can hardly understand this,” said he, at last ; “ you know I have always 
been on good terms with my neighbours, yet I have acquired little knowledge 
in these matters; I have always paid my rent to the moment; and, as my 
twenty-one years’ lease only expired two or three days ago, I have had little 
opportunity of judging how Irish agents behave on such occasions.” 

“Don’t be running down the country, Mr. Leslie,” said Alick, quickly, 
“ there’s a dale in the differ betwdxt the raale gintry and such musheroons as 
he; but keep a look-out, for he’s after no good. The day afore yesterday, 
when he behaved so unhandsome to my jacky-dorey — (’twould ha’ done yer 
heart good to look at that beautiful fish), he was walking with another spillogue 
of a fellow (the gauger by the same token) ; and so, as they seemed as thick 
as two rogues, whispering and nodding, and laying down the law, I thought if 
I let the baste go on, he’d keep safe to the road; and so, as they walked up 
one side of the hedge that leads to the hill, I jist streeled up the other, to see 


22 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


for the honour of ould Ireland, if I could fish out the rogue’s maning. Well, 
to be sure, they settled as how the rint should be doubled on the land that 
fell, more especially yours, and fines raised, and the gauger’s to act as ‘ turney 
but he said that he knew you ’d pay anything rather than lave the house ye 
settled up yerself ; and then t’ other said that (’t was the word he spoke), ‘ the 
ould Scotch cat’ wouldn’t let ye spind the money; and then t’other held to it, 
and said ye must go, for ye set a bad example of indipindence to the neigh- 
bours, and a dale more ; but the upshot was, that they must get rid o’ ye. And 
now, God be wid ye, and do yer best; and take care of that girl o’ yours, and 
don’t let the mistress bother her about that ould man, any more ; she ’s full o’ 
little tricks — may sense , not sorrow , sober thim, say I : good-night, and thank 
ye kindly ; Mr. Leslie, I ’m the boy ’ll look to ye, and don’t think bad o’ my 
saying that to the likes o’ you ; for ye remimber how the swallow brought 
word to the eagle where the fowler stood. God’s blessing be about ye all, 
Amin !” And the keen, wandering, good-natured fellow left the house, to 
share, according to custom, Dapple’s couch of clean straw, in the neighbour- 
ing shed. 

The next morning Leslie’s family received a visit from the agent, to the sur- 
prise of Annie and her mother, who welcomed him with much civility, while 
the farmer’s naturally independent feelings struggled stoutly with his interests. 
If there be one thing more than another to admire in the character of English 
yeomen, it is their steady bearing towards their superiors ; they feel that they 
are free-born men, and they act as such : but an Irish farmer must often play 
the spaniel to his landlord, and to all that belong to his household, or bear his 
name ; hardly daring to believe himself a man, much less fancy that, from his 
Maker’s hand, he came forth a being gifted with quick and high intellect — with 
a heart to feel, and a head to think, as well as, if not better than, the lord of the 
soil. But Mind, though it may be suppressed, cannot be destroyed ; with the 
Irish peasant, cunning frequently takes the place of boldness , and he becomes 
dangerous to his oppressors. Landlords may often thank their own wretched 
policy for the crimes of their tenantry, when they cease to reside amongst, or 
even visit, them, but leave them to the artful management of ignorant and de- 
based middle-men, who uniformly have but two principles of action — to blindfold 
their employers, and gain wealth at the expense of proprietor and tenant. 

“ Yer house is always nate and clane, Mrs. Leslie,” said Maley, “ and yer 
farm does ye credit, master ; I ’m sorry it ’s out of lase, but my duty to my 
employer obliges me to tell you that a new lase, if granted, must be on more 
advantageous terms to his Lordship. Yer present payments, arable and meadow 
land together, average something about two pounds five or six per acre.” 

“ Yes,” replied Leslie, “ always paid to the hour.” 

“ And if it please ye, sir,” said the good dame, “ when his Lordship was 
down here, he made us a faithful promise, on the honour of a gentleman, that 
he ’d renew the lease on the same terms, in consideration of the money and 
pains my husband bestowed on the land.” 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


23 


The agent turned his little grey eye sharply on the honest creature, and 
gave a grunt, that was less a laugh than a note of preparation for one, observ- 
ing, “ May-be he ’s lost his memory ; for there, Mr. Leslie, is the proposal he 
ordered me to make (he threw a sheet of folded foolscap on the table), so you 
may take it or lave it.” 

He was preparing to quit the cottage, when his eye glanced on a basket of 
eggs, that Annie had arranged to set under a favourite hen. — “What fine 
eggs !” he exclaimed ; “ I ’ll take two or three to show my wife.” And, one 
after another, he deposited all the poor girl’s embryo chickens in his capacious 
pockets. 

Leslie, really aroused by the barefaced impudence of the act, was starting 
forward to prevent it, when his wife laid her hand on his arm ; not that she did 
not sorrow after the spoil, but she had a point to gain. 

“ May-be, sir, ye ’d joost tell me the Laird’s present address ; Annie, put it 
down on that bit paper.” 

“ Tell his address ! — anything ye have to say must be to me, good woman. 
And so ye write, pretty one ; I wonder what is the use of taaching such girls as 
you to write : but ye ’re up to love-letters before this ; ay, ay, ye ’ll make the 
best of yer black eyes, my dear !” With this insulting speech, the low man in 
power left the cottage. 

Bitter was the anguish felt by that little party. The father sat, his hands 
supporting his head, his eyes fixed on the exorbitant demand the agent 
had left upon his table; large tears passed slowly down Annie’s cheek; 
and, if the poor mother suffered less than the others, it was because she talked 
more. 

“ Dinna be cast doon, Robert,” said she, at last, to her husband ; “ ye hae nae 
reason, even if he ask sae much money as ye say, as a premium, forbye other 
matters ; why, there are as gude farms elsewhere, and landlords that look after 
their tenants themselves. Oh, that wicked, wicked wretch ! — to see him pocket 
the eggs — and his speech to my poor Annie !” 

“ My darling girl !” exclaimed the father, pressing his daughter to his bosom, 
where he held her long and anxiously. 

It was almost impossible for Leslie to accede to the terms demanded : four 
pounds an acre for the farm, a heavy fine, and both duty-work, and duty-provi- 
sions, required in abundance. 

“ Dinna think o ’t, Robert,” repeated the dame ; “ we ’ll go elsewhere, and 
find better treatment. If ye keep it at that rate we shall all starve.” But the 
farmer’s heart yearned to every blade of grass that had grown beneath his eye : 
e hoped to frustrate the intended evil, and yet keep the land. His crops had 
been prosperous, his cattle healthy ; then, his neighbours, when, through Alick’s 
agency, they found how matters stood, had, with the genuine Irish feeling that 
shines more brightly in adversity than in prosperity, come forward, affection- 
ately tendering their services. 


24 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


“ Sure, the cutting the hay need niver cost ye a brass fardin,” said the kind 
hearted mower : “Pm half my time idle, and I may jist as well be doing some- 
thing for you as nothing for myself ; so don’t trouble about it, sir, dear ; we like 
to- have ye among us.” 

Then came “ Nelly the Picker,” as the spokeswoman of all her sisterhood. 
* Don’t think of laving us, Mrs. Leslie, ma’am, sure every one of us ’ll come as 
usual, but widout fee or reward, excipt the heart love, and do twice as much for 
that as for the dirty money ; and I ’ll go bail the pratees will be as well picked, 
and the corn as well reaped, bound, and stacked as iver. Sure, though we didn’t 
much like ye at first, hasn’t Miss Annie grown up among us, born as she is on 
the sod, and a credit to it, too, God be praised !” 

These were all very gratifying instances of pure and simple affection : in- 
deed, even Andrew Furlong forgot his somerset in the cabbage-bed, and posted 
down to the farm with his stocking full of gold and silver coins, of ancient and 
modern date, which were all at Leslie’s service, to pay the premium required 
by the agent for the renewal of the lease. This last favour, however, the 
worthy farmer would not even hear of; he, therefore, sold a great part of bis 
stock, and, to the annoyance of the agent, obtained the lease. From this cir- 
cumstance, he might be said to triumph over the machinations of his enemy ; 
but matters soon changed sadly : the family was as industrious as ever ; the 
same steady perseverance on the farmer’s part ; the same bustle and unweary- 
ing activity on that of the good dame ; and, though poor Annie’s cheek was 
more pale, and her eyes less bright, yet did she unceasingly labour in and out 
of their small dwelling. Notwithstanding all these exertions, the next season 
was a bad one ; their sheep fell off in the rot, their pigs had the measles, their 
chickens the pip, and two of their cows died in calf. Never did circumstances, 
in the little space of six months, undergo so great a change. Leslie’s silence 
amounted almost to sullenness ; his wife talked much of their ill-fortune ; An- 
nie said nothing ; but her step had lost its elasticity, her figure its grace, and 
her voice seldom trolled the joyous, or even the mournful, songs of her native 
land in the elder-bower, that, before the departure of James McCleary, had 
rung again and again with merry laughter and music. James never returned 
after that unfortunate evening; and his mother had only twice heard from 
him since his absence : his letters were brief — “He had gone,” he said, “to 
sea, to enable him to learn something, and to forget much.” His mother and 
younger brother managed the farm with much skill and attention during his 
absence. No token, no word of her whom he had dotingly loved, appeared 
in his letters. It was evident that he tried to think of her as a heartless, jilting 
woman, unworthy to possess the affections of a sensible man ; but there must 
have been times when the remembrance of her full beauty, of her frank and 
generous temper, of her many acts of charity (and in these she was never 
capricious), came upon him ; — then the last scene at the cottage was forgotten, 
and he remembered alone her sweet voice, and sweeter look, in the hay mea- 
dow, when he cut off the curling braid of hair, which, doubtless, rested on 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


25 

his bosom in all his wanderings. And then he refreshed his memory by gazing 
on it, in the clear moonlight, during the night watches, when only the eye of 
heaven was upon him. Let no one imagine that such love is too refined to 
throb in a peasant’s bosom ; trust me, it is not. The being who lives amid 
the beauties of nature, although he may not express, must feel, the elevating, 
yet gentle influence of herb, and flower, and tree. Many a time have I heard 
the ploughman suspend his whistle, to listen to that of the melodious black- 
bird ; and well do I remember the beautiful expression of one of my humblest 
neighbours, when, resting on his hay-fork, he had silently watched the sun 
as it set over a country glowing in its red and golden light: “It is very 
grand, yet hard to look upon,” said he ; “ one can almost think it God’s holy 
throne !” 

The last letter that reached our sailor-friend, contained, amongst others of 
similar import, the following passage — “ Ye ’ll be sorry to hear, James (though 
it’s nothing to ye now), that times are turned bad with the Leslies; there has 
been a dale of underhand work by my Lord’s agent ; and the girl ’s got a cold, 
dismal look. My heart aches for the poor thing ; for her mother is set upon her 
marrying Andrew Furlong, which she has no mind in life to.” 

Gale-day (as the rent-day is called in Ireland) had come and gone, and much 
sorrow was in the cottage of Robert Leslie. In the grey twilight he sat in a 
darkened corner of his little parlour, the very atmosphere of .which appeared 
clouded ; the dame stood at the open casement, against which Annie reclined 
more like a stiffened corpse than a breathing woman. Andrew F urlong was 
seated also at a table, looking earnestly on the passing scene. 

“ Haven’t ye seen,” said the mother, — ■“ haven’t ye seen, Annie, the misery 
that ’s come upon us, entirely by my advice being no minded 1 And are ye 
goin’ tamely to see us turned out o’ house and hame, when we have na the 
means of getting anither? I, Annie,” she continued, “am a’maist past my 
labour; ah, my bonny bairn, it was for you we worked — for you we toiled; your 
faither an’ me had but the one heart in that ; and if the Lord Almighty has 
pleased to take it frae us, it ’s na reason why you should forget how ye were 
still foremost in your parents’ love.” 

Annie answered nothing. 

“ Speak to her, Robert,” said Mrs. Leslie, “ she disna mind me noo.” 

Annie raised her eyes reproachfully to her mother’s face. The farmer came 
forward, — he kissed the marble brow of his pale child, and she rested her head 
on his shoulder. As he turned towards her, she ; whispered, “Is all, indeed, as 
bad as mother says V 9 

“Even so,” was his reply; “unless something be done, to-morrow we shall 
have no home. Annie, it is to shield you I think of this ; my delicate, fading 
flower, how could you labour as a hired servant ? And — God in his mercy look 
upon us ! — I should not be able to find a roof to shelter my only child !” 

4 


26 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


“ My bairn,” again commenced Mrs. Leslie, “ sure the mother that gave 
ye birth can wish for naething sae much as your weel-doing ; and sure sic 
a man as Maister Furlong could na fail to make ye happy. All the goud 
your faither wants he will gi’e us noo, trusting to his bare word; to-mor- 
row, and it will be too late; — all these things sauld — the sneers of that 
bitter man — the scorn (for poverty is aye scorned) of a cauld warld — and, 
may-be, your faither in a lanely prison ; eh, child — what could ye do for him 
then ?” 

“Mother!” exclaimed the girl, starting, with convulsive motion, from her 
father’s shoulder ; “ say no more ; here — a promise is all he wants to prevent 
this — here is my hand — give it where you please.” She stretched out her arm 
to its full length — it was rigid as iron. Furlong advanced to take it ; and 
whether Leslie would have permitted such a troth-plight or not, cannot now 
be ascertained, for the long form of Alick the Traveller stalked abruptly into 
the room. 

“Asy, asy, for God’s sake! — put up yer hand, Miss Annie, dear; keep 
your sate, I beg, Mr. Furlong; no rason in life for yer rising; all of ye be 
asy. Will nobody quiet that woman, for God’s sake ?” he continued, seeing 
that the dame was, naturally enough, angry at this intrusion ; “ first let me say 
my say, and be off, for sorra a minute have I to waste upon ye. Robert Leslie 
by name, didn’t I, onst upon a time, tell ye truth ? — and a sore hearing it was, 
sure enough. Well, thin, I tell it ye again, and if it’s not true, why ye may 
hang me as high as Iiowth ; — don’t let yer daughter mum herself away after 
that fashion. Mister Furlong, ye ’re a kind-hearted mam so ye are, and many 
a bit an’ a sup have ye bestowed upon me and the baste — thank ye kindly for 
that same — but yarra a much sense ye have, or ye wouldn’t be looking after 
empty nuts: — what the divil would be the good o’ the hand o’ that cratur, 
widout her heart? And that ye’ll niver have. Mistress Leslie, ma’am, honey, 
don’t be after blowing me up ; — now jist think — sure I know that ye left the 
bonny hills and the sweet-scented broom of Scotland, to marry that English- 
man. And ye mind the beautiful song that ye sing, far before any one I ever 
heard — about loving in youth, and thin climbing the hill, and then sleeping at 
ihe fut of it — John Anderson, ye call it: wouldn’t ye rather have yer heart’s 
first love, though he ’s ould and grey now, than a king upon his throne ? Ay, 
woman, that touches ye ! And do ye think she hasn’t some o’ the mother’s feel 
in her ? Now, Mister Leslie, don’t — don’t any of ye make her promise to-night ; 
ye ’ll bless me for this, even you, Mister Andrew, by to-morrow sunset ; promise, 
Robert Leslie.” 

“You told me truth before,” said the bewildered man, “ and I have no right 

to doubt you now— I do promise.” Alick strode out of the cottage ; Andrew 

followed like an enraged turkey-cock, and the family were left again in solitude. 
The words of the fisherman had affected Mrs. Leslie deeply : she had truly 
fancied she was seeking her child’s happiness ; and, perhaps for the first time, 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


27 

she remembered how miserable she would have been with any other husband 
than “ her ain gude-man.” 

The little family passed the night almost in the very extremity of despair. 
“ Such,” said Leslie, afterwards, “ as I could not pass again ; for the blood 
now felt as if frozen in my veins — now rushing through them with fearful 
rapidity — and, as my head rested on my poor wife's shoulder, the throbbing 
of my bursting temples but echoed the beating of her agitated heart.” The 
early light of morning found Annie in a heavy sleep ; and the mid-day sun 
glowed as brightly as if it illumined the pathway of princes, on three or four 
ill-looking men, who entered the dwelling of the farmer. Their business was 
soon commenced — it was a work of heart-sickening desolation. On Annie’s 
pure and simple bed sat one of the officials, noting down each article in the 
apartment. Leslie, his arms folded, his lips compressed, his forehead gathered 
in heavy wrinkles over his brow, stood firmly in the centre of the room. Mrs. 
Leslie sat, her face covered with her apron — which was soon saturated by 
her tears, and poor little Phillis crouched beneath her chair ; — Annie clung 
to her father’s arm ; her energies were roused as she feelingly appealed to 
the heartless executors of the law. What increased the wretchedness of the 
scene was the presence of Mr. Maley himself, who seemed to exult over the 
misery of his victims. He was not, however, to have it all his own way : 
several of the more spirited neighbours assembled, and forgot their own 
interests in their anxiety for the Leslies. One young fellow entered, waving 
his shilelah, and swearing, in no measured terms, that “he’d spill the last 
drop of his heart’s blood afore a finger should be laid on a single scrap in the 
house.” The agent’s scowl changed into a sneer, as he pointed to the docu- 
ment he held in his hand. This, however, was no argument to satisfy our 
Irish champion ; and, in truth, matters would have taken a serious turn, but 
for the prompt interference of an old man, who held back the arms of the 
young hero. The door was crowded by the sympathizing peasantry ; some, 
by tears,' and many, by deep and awful execrations, testified their abhorrence 
of the man “ dressed in a little brief authority.” “ Oh !” ejaculated Mrs. Les- 
lie, “ oh ! that I had never lived to see this day of ruin and disgrace ! Oh ! An- 
nie, you let it come to ” 

“ Hold, woman !” exclaimed her husband ; “ remember what we repeated 
last night to each other ; remember how we prayed, when this poor child was 
sleeping, as in the sleep of death ; remember how we both bethought of the fair 
names of our parents — how you told me of the men of your kin who fought 
for their faith among your native Scottish hills ; and my own ancestors, who 
left their possessions and distant lands for conscience sake ! Oh, woman, Janet, 
remember the words, * yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed 
begging bread.’ ” 

Doubtless Mrs. Leslie felt, in their full force, these sweet sounds of consola- 
tion ; — again she hid her face, and wept. It is in the time of affliction that the 
words of Scripture pour balm upon the wounded spirit ; in the world’s turmoil 


28 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


they are often unhappily forgotten ; but in sorrow they are sought for, even as 
the hart seeketh for the water-brooks. 

The usually placid farmer had scarcely given vent to this extraordinary burst 
of feeling, when there was a bustle outside the door, which was speedily ac- 
counted for. A post-chaise ! rattling down the lane, and stopping suddenly 
opposite the little green gate ; from off the crazy bar, propped upon two rusty 
supporters, in front of the creaking vehicle, sprang our old friend, Alick the 
Traveller : — “ Huzza ! huzza, boys ! Ould Ireland for ever ! Och ! but the 
bones o’ me are in smithereens from the shaking ! Huzza for justice ! Boys, 
dear, won’t ye give one shout for justice? — HisnH often it troubles you . — Och ! 
stand out o’ my way, for I ’m dancing mad ! Och ! — by St. Patrick ! — Stand 
back, ye pack o’ bogtrotters, till I see the meeting. Och ! — love is the life of a 
nate. — Och ! my heart’s as big as a whale !” 

While honest Alick was indulging in these and many similar exclamations, 
capering, snapping his fingers, jumping (to use his own expression) “ sky high,” 
and shouting, singing, and swearing, with might and main, two persons had 
descended from the carriage. One, a tall, slight, gentlemanly man, fashionably 
enveloped in a fur travelling cloak ; the other, a jovial sailor, whose handsome 
face was expressive of the deepest anxiety and feeling. 

The sailor was James McCleary ; the gentleman — but I must carry my story 
decorously onwards. 

Poor Annie ! she had suffered too much to coquet it again. Whether she 
fainted or not, I do not recollect ; but this I know, that she leaned her weeping 
face upon James’s shoulder, and that the expression of his countenance varied 
to an almost ludicrous degree : — now beaming with love and tenderness, as he 
looked upon the maiden — now speaking of “ death and destruction” to the 
crest-fallen agent. The gentleman stood, for a moment, wondering at every- 
body, and everybody wondering at him. At last, in a firm voice, he said, “ I 
stop this proceeding ; and I order you (and he fixed a withering glance upon 
Maley) — I do not recollect your name , although I am perfectly acquainted with 
your nature — I order you, sir, to leave this cottage ; elsewhere you shall ac- 
count for your conduct.” Maley sank into his native insignificance in an in- 
stant ; but then impudence, the handmaid of knavery, came to his assistance : 
pulling down his wig with one hand, and holding his spectacles on his ugly red 
snub nose with the other, he advanced to where the gentleman stood, and peer- 
ing up into his face, while the other eyed him as an eagle would a vile carrion 
crow, inquired, with a quivering lip, that ill assorted with his words’ bravery, — 
“ And who the devil are you, sir, who interferes in what doesn’t by any manner 
of means concern you ?” 

“ As you wish to know, sir,” replied the gentleman, removing his hat, and 
looking kindly around on the peasants, “ I am brother to your landlord !” Oh, 
for Wilkie, to paint the serio-comic effect of that little minute ! — the look of 
abashed villany— the glorious feeling that suffused the honest farmer’s counte- 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


29 

nance — the uplifted hands and ejaculations of Mrs. Leslie — the joyous face 
of Annie, glistening all over with smiles and tears— the hearty, honest shout 
of the villagers— and even the merry bark of little Phillis :— then Alick, 
striding up to the late man of power, his long back curved into -a humiliated 
bend, his hand and arm fully extended, his right foot a little advanced, while 
his features varied from the most contemptuous and satirical expression to one 
of broad and gratified humour, addressed him, with mock reverence : “ Mister 
Maley, sir, will ye allow me (as the gintry say) the pleasure to see ye out; it’s 
your turn now, ould boy, though ye don’t know a fluke from a jacky-dorey.” 

“Sir — my Lord,” stammered out the crest-fallen villain, “I don’t really 
know what is meant ; I acted for the best — for his Lordship’s interest.” 

“ Peace, man !” interrupted the gentleman ; “I do not wish to expose 
you; there is my brother’s letter: to-morrow I will see you at his house, 
where his servants are now preparing for my reception.” The man and his 
minions shrank away as well and as quietly as they could ; and the Leslies had 
now time to wonder how all this change had been brought about; while the 
neighbours lingered around the door, with a pardonable curiosity, to “see 
the last of it.” 

“Ye may thank that gentleman for it all,” said James; “besides being 
brother to the landlord, I had the honour to sarve under him in as brave a 
ship as ever stept the sea ; and ye mind wdien matters were going hard here, 
Alick (God for ever bless him for it !) turned to at the pen, and wrote me every 
particular, and all about the agent’s wickedness, and (may I say it, Annie, 
now l) yer love for me : and how out o’ divilment he sent the ould man to make 
love to you that sorrowful evening — when I went away — and then put me up 
to catch him; little thinking how the jealousy would drive me mad; well, his 
honour, the Captain, had no pride in him — ” 

“ Stop, my brave lad, towards you I could have none,” exclaimed the 
generous officer ; “ where the battle raged the most, you were at my side ; and 
when, in boarding the Frenchman, I was almost nailed to the deck, you — you 
rushed forward, and, amid death and danger, bore me, sadly wmunded, in your 
arms, back to my gallant ship.” He extended his hand to the young Irishman, 
who pressed it respectfully to his lips. — “ To see the like o’ that now,” said 
Alick; “to see him shaking hands with one that’s as good as a lord!” — “I 
held frequent conversations with my brave friend,” continued the Captain, 
“ and, at length, he enlightened me as to the treatment my brother’s tenants 
experienced from the agent; I am come down expressly to see justice 
done to all, who, I regret to find, have suffered from the ill-effects of the 
absentee system. Miss Leslie, I am sorry to lose so good a sailor, but I only 
increase my number of friends when I resign James McCleary to his rightful 
commander.” 

“Och! my dears,” exclaimed Alick ; “it’s as good as a play — a beautiful 
play: and there’s honest Andrew coming over; don’t toss him in the cab- 
bage-bed, James, honey, this time. And, James, dear, there’s your ould 


30 


ANNIE LESLIE. 


mother running up the lane, — well, ould as she is, she bates Andrew at the 
step. Uch ! Miss Annie, don’t ye be looking down after that fashion. And, 
sir, my Lord, if yer honour plases, ye won’t forget the little bit o’ ground for 
the baste.” . 

“ Everything I have promised I will perform,” said the young man, as he 
withdrew ; an example which I must follow, assuring all who read my story 
that, however strange it may appear, Annie made an excellent wife, never 
flirted the least bit in the world, except with her husband ; and practically 
remembered her father’s wise and favourite text — “ I have been young and 
now am old , yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken , nor his seed begging 
bread.” 





LARRY MOORE. 


HINK of to-morrow !”■ — that is what few Irish pea- 
sants ever do, with a view of providing for it : at least , 
few with whom I have had opportunities of being ac- 
quainted. They will think of anything — of everything, 
but that. There is Larry Moore, for example : — who, 
that has ever visited my own pastoral village of Ban- 
now, is unacquainted with Larry, the Bannow boat- 
man — the invaluable Larry — who, tipsy or sober, 
asleep or awake, rows his boat with undeviating power 
and precision ? — He, alas ! is a strong proof of the 
truth of my observation. Look at him on a fine sunny 
day in June. The cliffs that skirt the shore, where his 
boat is moored, are crowned with wild furze ; while, 
here and there, a tuft of white or yellow broom, sprout- 
ing a little above the bluish green of its prickly neigh- 
bour, waves its blossoms, and flings its fragrance to 
the passing breeze. Down to the very edge of the rippling waves is almost one 
unbroken bed of purple thyme, glowing and beautiful ; — and there Larry’s goat, 
with her two sportive kids — sly, cunning rogues ! — find rich pasture — now nib- 
bling the broom-blossoms, now sporting amid the furze, and making the scenery 
re-echo with their musical bleating. The little island opposite, Larry considers 
his own particular property ; not that a single sod of its bright greenery belongs 
to him — but, to use his own words, “ Sure it ’s all as one my own — don’t I see 
it — don’t I walk upon it — and the very water that ’s set in is my own ; for sorra 
a one can put foot on it widout me and ‘ the coble,’ that have been hand and 
glove as good as forty years.” But look, I pray you, upon Larry : — there he 
lies, stretched in the sunlight, at full length, on the firm sand, like a man-porpoise 
— sometimes on his back — then slowly turning on his side — but his most usual 
attitude is a sort of reclining position against that flat grey stone, just at high- 
water mark ; he selects it as his constant resting-place, because (again to use his 
own words) “ the tide, bad cess to it ! was apt to come fast in upon a body, and 
there was a dale of throuble in moving ; but even if one chanced to fall asleep, 
sorra a morsel of harm the salt water could do ye on the grey stone, where a 
living merwoman sat every new-year’s night combing her black hair, and mak- 
ing beautiful music to the wild waves, who, consequently, trated her sate wid 
grate respict — why not?” There, then, is Larry — his chest leaning on the mer- 
maid’s stone, as we call it — his long, bare legs stretched out behind, kicking, 
occasionally, as a gad-fly, or merry-hopper, skips about what it naturally con- 
siders lawful prey : — his lower garments have evidently once been trowsers — 

( 31 ) * 



32 


LARRY MOORE. 


blue trowsers , but as Larry, when in motion, is amphibious, they have experi- 
enced the decaying effects of salt water, and now only descend to the knee 
where they terminate in unequal fringes. Indeed, his frieze jacket is no great 
things, being much rubbed at the elbows — and no wonder ; for Larry, when 
awake, is ever employed, either in pelting the sea-gulls (who, to confess the truth, 
treat him with very little respect), rowing his boat, or watching the circles formed 
on the surface of the calm waters by the large or small pebbles he throws into 
it ; and as Larry of course, rests his elbow on the rocks, while performing these 
exploits, the sleeves must wear, for frieze is not “ impenetrable stuff.” His hat 
is a natural curiosity, composed of sun-burned straw, banded by a misshapen 
sea-ribbon, and garnished by “ delisk,” red and green, his “ cutty pipe ” stuck 
through a slit in the brim, which bends it directly over the left eye, and keeps it 
“ quite handy widout any trouble.” His bushy, reddish hair persists in obsti- 
nately pushing its way out of every hole in his extraordinary hat, or clusters 
strangely over his Herculean shoulders, and a low-furrowed brow, very unpro- 
mising to the eye of a phrenologist : — in truth, Larry has somewhat of a dogged 
expression of countenance, which is relieved, at times, by the humorous twin- 
kle of his little grey eyes, pretty much in the manner that a star or two illume 
the dreary blank of a cloudy November night. The most conspicuous part of his 
attire, however, is an undressed wide leather belt, that passes over one shoulder, 
and then under another strap of the same material that encircles his waist; from 
this depends a rough wooden case, containing his whiskey-botttle ; a long, nar- 
row knife ; pieces of rope, of varied length and thickness ; and a pouch which 
contains the money he earns at his “ vocation.” 

Our portrait of him is sketched on the beach directly under the old church- 
yard of Bannow — upon the roof of one of the houses, it may be, for scores of 
them are buried beneath the sand; and the chimney of the ancient town-hall 
still exists a mass of coarse mason-work among the graves. The surrounding 
scenery is more interesting, perhaps, than beautiful ; though, to me, there is the 
beauty of association in every object within ken. But the curiosity, even of a 
stranger, may be excited by the distant promontory of Bag-an-bun, where — 

“Irelonde was lost and won,” 

seen to great advantage from this particular spot. We may not moralize, how 
ever ; our intention is to converse with Larry. 

“ Good morrow, Larry !” 

“ Good morrow kindly, my lady ! may-be ye ’re going across ?” 

No, thank ye, Larry : — but there ’s a silver sixpence for good luck.” 

“ Ough ! God’s blessing be about ye ! — I said so to my woman this morning, 
and she bothering thesowl out o’ me for money, as if I could make myself into 
silver, let alone brass : — asy, says I, what trouble ye take ! sure we had a good 
dinner yesterday ; and more by tokens, the grawls were so plased wid the mate 
—the craturs ! — sorra morsel o’ pratee they ’d put into their mouths ; — and we ’ll 
have as good a one to-day.” 


LARRY MOORE. 


33 



“ The ferry is absolutely filled with fish, Larry, if you would only take the 
trouble to catch it !” 

“ Is it fish ? Ough ! sorra fancy I have for fasting-mate — besides, it ’s mighty 
watery, and a dale of trouble to catch. A grate baste of a cod lept into my 
boat yesterday, and I lying just here, and the boat close up : I thought it would 
ha’ sted asy while I hollooed to Tom, who was near breaking his neck after the 
samphire for the quality, the gomersal ! — but, my jewil ! it was whip and away 
wid it all in a minit — back to the water. — Small loss !” 

“ But, Larry, it would have made an excellent dinner.” 

“ Sure I ’m after telling yer ladyship that we had a rale mate dinner, by grate 
good luck, yesterday.” 

“ But to-day, by your own confession, you had nothing.” 

“ Sure you ’ve just given me sixpence.” 

“ But suppose I had not !” 

. “ Where ’s the good of thinking that, now ?” 

“ Oh, Larry, I ’m afraid you never think of to-morrow /” 

“ There ’s not a man in the whole parish of Bannow thinks more of it than I 
do,” responded Larry, raising himself up ; “ and, to prove it to ye, madam dear, 
we ’ll have, a wet night — I see the sign of it, for all the sun ’s so bright, both in 
the air and the water.” 

5 



34 


LARRY MOORE. 


“ Then, Larry, take my advice ; go home and mend the great hole that is in 
the thatch of your cabin.” 

“ Is it the hole ? — where ’s the good of losing time about it now, when the 
weather ’s so fine ?” 

“ But when the rain comes V 9 

“ Lord bless ye, my lady ! sure I can’t hinder the rain ! and sure it ’s fitter for 
me to stand under the roof in a dry spot, than to go out in the teams to stop up 
a taste of a hole. Sorra a drop comes through it in dry weather 99 

“ Larry, you truly need not waste so much time ; it is ten chances to one if 
you get a single fare to-day; — and here you stay, doing nothing. You might 
usefully employ yourself, by a little foresight.” 

“ Would ye have me desert my trust? Sure I must mind the boat. But, God 
bless ye, ma’am darlint ! don’t be so hard intirely upon me ; for I get a dhle o’ 
blame I don’t by no manner of means desarve. My wife turns at me as wicked 
as a weazel, becase I gave my consint to our Nancy’s marrying Matty Keogh ; 
and she says they were bad to come together on account that they hadn’t enough 
to pay the priest ; and the end of it is, that the girl and a grandchild are come 
back upon us ; and the husband is off — God knows where !” 

“ I ’m sorry to hear that, Larry ; but your son James, by this time, must be 
able to assist you.” 

“ There it is again, my lady ! James was never very bright — and his mother 
was always at him, plaguing his life out to go to Mister Ben’s school, and say- 
ing a dale about the time to come ; but I didn’t care to bother the cratur ; and 
I ’m sorry to say he ’s turned out rather obstinate — and even the priest says it ’s 
becase I never tfrink of to-morrow” 

“ I ’m glad to find the priest is of my opinion : but, tell me, have you fatted 
the pig Mr. Herriott gave you ?” 

“ Oh ! my bitter curse (axing yer pardon, my lady) be upon all the pigs in 
and out of Ireland ! That pig has been the ruin of me ; it has such a taste for 
eating young ducks as never was in the world ; and I always tether him by the 
leg when I ’m going out ; but he ’s so ’cute now, he cuts the tether.” 

“ Why not confine him in a sty ? — you are close to the quarry, and could 
build one in half an hour.” 

“ Is it a sty for the likes of him ! cock him up wid a sty ! Och, Musha ! Mu- 
sha ! the tether keeps him asy for the day.” 

“ But not for the morrow , Larry.” 

“ Now ye ’re at me agin ! — you that always stood my friend. Meal-a-murder ! 
if there isn’t Rashleigh Jones making signs for the boat ! Oh 1 ye ’re in a hurry, 
are ye ? — well, ye must wait till yer hurry is over ; I ’m not going to hurry my- 
self, wid sixpence in my pocket, for priest or minister.” 

“ But the more you earn the better, Larry.” 

“ Sure I ’ve enough for to-day.” 

“ But not for to-morrow , Larry.” 

“True for ye, ma’am dear; though people take a dale o’ trouble, I’m 


LARRY MOORE. 


35 

thinking, when they’ve full and plenty at the same time; and I don’t like 
bothering about it then. Sure, I see ye plain enough, Master Rashleigh. 
God help me ! I broke the oar yesterday, and never thought to get it mended ; 
and my head’s splitting open with the pain — I took a drop too much last night, 
and that makes me fit for nothing ” 

“ On the morrow , Larry.” 

“Faith! ma’am dear, you’re too bad. Oh dear! if I had the sense to set 
the lobster-pots last night, what a power I’d ha’ caught! — they’re dancing the 
hays merrily down there, the cowardly blackguards! but I didn’t think—” 

“ Of the morrow , Larry.” 

“ Oh, then, let me alone, lady dear ! What will I do wid the oar ! Jim 
Connor gave me a beautiful piece of strong rope yesterday, but I didn’t want 
it; and — I believe one of the childer got hold of it — I didn’t think — ” 

“ Of the morrow , Larry.” 

“By dad, I have it! — I can poke the coble on with this ould pitchfork; 
there’s not much good in it; but never heed — it’s the master’s, and he’s too 
much of a jentleman to mind trifles; though I’m thinking times a ’n’t as good 
wid him now as they used to be ; for Barney Clarey tould Nelly Parrell, who 
tould Tom Lavery, who tould it out forenint me, and a dale more genteel men, 
who were taking a drop o’ comfort at St. Patrick’s, as how they bottle the 
whiskey, and salt the mate, at the big house ; and if that isn’t a bad sign, I don’t 
know what is; — though we may thank the English housekeeper for it, I’m 
thinking — wid her beaver bonnet, and her yellow silk shawl, that my wife (who 
knows the differ) says, after all, it’s only calico-cotton.” 

“ What do you mean by bottling the whiskey and salting the meat, Larry ?” 

“ Now, don’t be coming over us after that fashion ; may-be ye don’t know, 
indeed ? Sure the right way, my lady, is to have the whiskey on draught ; and 
then it’s so refreshing, of a hot summer’s day, to take a good hearty swig; and 
in winter — by the powers! ma’am, honey, let me just take the liberty of advising 
you never to desart the whiskey ; it ’ll always keep the could out of yer heart, 
and the trouble from yer eye. Sure the clargy take to it, and lawyers take to 
it, far before new milk; and his holiness the pope — God bless him! — to say 
nothing of the king (who is the first king of hearts we ever had), who drinks 
nothing but Innishown — which, to my taste, hasn’t half the fire of the rale 
potteen. It’s next to a deadly sin to bottle whiskey in a jentleman’s house ; — and, 
as to salting mate ; — sure the ould ancient Irish fashion — the fashion of the good 
ould times — is just to kill the baste, and thin hang it by the legs in a convanient 
place ; and every one can take a part of what they like best.” 

“ But do you know that the English think of to-morrow , Larry?” 

“ Ay, the tame negres ! that’s the way they get rich, and sniff at the world, 
my jewil ; and they no oulder in it 4han Henry the Second ; for sure, if there 
had been English before his time, it’s long sorry they’d ha’ been to let Ireland 
so long alone.” 

“Do you think so, Larry?” 


36 


LARRY MOORE. 


•* I’ll prove it to ye, my lady, if ye’ll jist wait till I bring over that impatient 
chap, Rashleigh Jones, who’s ever running after the day, as if he hadn’t a bit 
to eat: — there, d’ye see him? — he’s dancing mad — he may just as well take 
it asy. It’s such as him give people the feaver. There’s that devil of a goat 
grinning at me ; sorra a drop of milk can we get from her, for she won’t stand 
quiet for a body to catch her; and my wife’s not able, and I’m not willing, to 
go capering over the cliffs. Never mind !” 

At last, Larry and his boat are off, by the assistance of the pitchfork, and 
most certainly he does not hurry himself ; but where is Rashleigh going to ? 
As I live ! he has got into Mr. Dorkin’s pleasure-boat, that has just turned the 
corner of the island, and will be at this side before Larry gets to the other. 
Larry will not easily pardon this encroachment ; not because of the money 
but because of his privilege. I have heard it rumoured that, if Larry does 
not become more active, he will lose his situation ; but I cannot believe it ; he 
is, when fairly on the water, the most careful boatman in the county ; and 
permit me to mention, in sotto voce , that his master could not possibly dismiss 
him on the charge of heedlessness, because he himself once possessed unencum- 
bered property by field and flood, wooded hills, verdant vales, and pure gushing 
rivers. Those fair heritages are, however, passing into the hands of other 
proprietors ; and the hair of the generous, good-natured landlord has become 
white, and sorrow has furrowed his brow, long before sixty summers have 
glowed upon his head. His children, too, do not hold that station in society to 
which their birth entitles them ; and, latterly, he has not been so often on the 
grand jury, nor at the new member’s dinners. The poor love him as well as 
ever ; but the rich have neglected, in a great degree, his always hospitable 
board. The parish priest told me, in confidence, that all the change originated 
in our excellent friend’s never thinking of to-morrow. 






KATE CONNOR, 

RUST me, your Lordship’s opinion is unfounded,” said 
the Lady Helen Graves ; and, as the noble girl uttered 
the words her eye brightened, and her cheek flushed 
with a better feeling than high-born “fashionables” 
generally deem necessary. 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed the Earl, looking up at the ani- 
mated features of his god-daughter, “ and how comes 
my pretty Helen to know aught of the matter? — me- 
thinks she has learned more than the mysteries of harp 
and lute, or the soft tones of the Italian and Spanish 
tongues. Come,” he continued “ sit down on this soft 
Ottoman, and prove the negative to my assertion — 
that the Irish act only from impulse, not from prin- 
ciple.” 

“ How long can an impulse last ?” inquired the lady, 
as she seated herself at her god-father’s feet, just where he wished, playfully 
resting her rosy cheek on his hand, as she inquired — “ tell me, first, how long an 
impulse can last?” 

' 5 * ( 37 )*- 



38 


KATE CONNOR. 


“ It is only a momentary feeling, my love ; although acting upon it may 
embitter a long life. 

44 But an impulse cannot last for a month, can it ? Then I am quite safe ; and 
now your Lordship must listen to a true tale, and must suffer me to tell in my 
way, brogue and all; and, moreover, must have patience. It is about a peasant 
maiden, whom I dearly love — ay, and respect too, and whenever I think of sweet 
* Kate Connor,* I bless God that the aristocracy of virtue ( if I dare use such a 
phrase) may be found, in all its lustre, in an Irish cabin. 

“ It was on one of the most chilly of all November days, the streets and houses 
filled with fog, and the few stragglers in the square, in their dark clothes, looking 
like dirty demons in a smoky pantomime, that papa and myself, at that outre 
season, when everybody is out of town, arrived here, from Brighton ; he had 
been summoned on business, and I preferred accompanying him to remaining on 
the coast alone. 4 Not at home to any one,* were the orders issued when we 
sat down to dinner. The cloth had been removed, and papa was occupying him- 
self in looking over some papers ; from his occasional frown I fancied they were 
not of the most agreeable nature ; at last I went to my harp, and played one of 
the airs of my country, of which I knew he was particularly fond. He soon 
left his seat, and kissing my forehead with much tenderness, said, 4 That strain is 
too melancholy for me just now, Helen, for I have received no very pleasant 
news from my Irish agent.’ I expressed my sincere sorrow at the circumstance, 
and ventured to make some inquiries as to the intelligence that had arrived. 4 1 
cannot understand it,’ he said ; 4 when we resided there, it was only from the 
papers that I heard of the — dreadful murders, horrible outrages, and malicious 
burnings. All around us was peace and tranquillity; my rents were as punctually 
paid as in England ; for in both countries a tenant, yes, and a good tenant, too, 
may be sometimes in arrears. I made allowance for the national character of 
the people ; and, while I admired the contented and happy faces that smiled as 
joyously over potatoes and milk as if the board had been covered with a feast 
of venison, I endeavoured to make them desire more, and then sought to attach 
them to me by supplying their new wants.’ 

44 4 And, dear sir, you succeeded,’ I said ; 4 never were hearts more grateful — 
never were tears more sincere, than theirs, when we left them to the care of 
that disagreeable, ill-looking agent.’ 

44 4 Hold, Lady Mal-a-pert !’ interrupted my father, sternly ; 4 1 selected Mr. 
O’Brian: you can know nothing of his qualifications. I believe him to be an 
upright, I fear me, a stern man ; and I apprehend he has been made the tool of 
a party.’ 

44 4 Dear papa, I wish you would again visit the old castle. A winter among 
my native mountains would afford me more pure gratification than the most suc- 
cessful season in London.’ My father smiled, and shook his head. 4 The rents 

are now so difficult to collect, that I fear ’ he paused, and then added, abruptly, 

4 it is very extraordinary, often as I mentioned it to O’Brien, that I can receive 
no information as to the Connors. You have written frequently to your poor 


KATE CONNOR. 


39 

nurse, and she must have received the letters— I sent them over with my own, 
and they have been acknowledged !’ He had scarcely finished this sentence, 
when we heard the porter in loud remonstrance with a female, who was endea- 
vouring to force her way through the hall. I half opened the library-door, where 
we were sitting, to ascertain the cause of the interruption. 4 Ah, then, sure, ye 
wouldn’t have the heart to turn a poor crathur from the door— that ’s come sich 
a way jist to spake tin words to his Lordship’s glory ! And don’t tell me that 
my Lady Hilin wouldn’t see me, and she to the fore.’ It was enough ; I knew 
the voice of my nurse’s daughter ; and would, I do think, have kissed her with all 
my heart, but she fell on her knees, and clasping my hand firmly between hers, 
exclaimed, while the tears rolled down her cheeks, and sobs almost choked her 
utterance — 4 Holy Mary ! Thank God ! — ’T is herself, sure ! — though so beau- 
tiful ! — and no ways proud ! — and I will have justice !’ And then, in a subdued 
voice, she added — 4 Praise to the Lord ! — his care niver left me ; and I could die 

contint this minute — only for you, mother, dear ! — yerself only — and ’ Ou? 

powdered knaves, I perceived, smiled and sneered, when they saw Kate 
Connor seated that evening by my side — and my father (heaven bless him for 
it !) opposite to us in his great arm-chair, listening to the story that Kate had to 
unfold. 

44 4 Whin ye’s left us, we all said that the winter was come in arnest, an that 
the summer was gone for ever. Well, my Lord, we struv to plase the agint, 
why not ? — sure he was the master ye set over us ! — but it doesn’t become the 
likes o’ me, nor wouldn’t be manners, to turn my tongue agin him, and he made 
as good as a gintleman, to be sure, by yer Lordship’s notice — which the whole 
counthry knew he was not afore, either by birth or breeding. Well, my lady 
— sure if ye put a sod o’ turf — saving yer presence — in a goold dish, it ’s only a 
turf still ; and he must ha’ been Ould Nick’s born child (Lord save us !) when yer 
honour’s smile couldn’t brighten him ! And it ’s the truth I ’m telling, and no lie ; 
— first of all, the allowance to my mother was stopped for damage the pig did 
to the new hedges ; and then we were forced to give our best fowl as a compli- 
ment to Mr. O’Brian — because the goat (and the crathur without a tooth !) they 
said, skinned the trees ; then the priest (yer Lordship minds Father Lavery) and 
the agint quarrelled, and so — out o’ spite — he set up a school, and would make 
all the childer go to larn there ; and thin the priest hindered — and to be sure we 
stud by the church — and so there was nothin’ but fighting ; and the boys gave 
over work, seeing that the tip-tops didn’t care how things went — only abusing 
each other. But it isn’t that, I should be bothering yer kind honours wid. My 
brother, near tw r o years agone, picked up wid the hoith of bad company — God 
knows how ! — and got above us all — so grand-like — wearing a new coat, and a 
watch, and a jewil ring ! — so, whin he got the time o’ day in his pocket, he wouldn’t 
look at the same side of the way we wint ; well, lady dear, this struck to my 
mother’s heart — yet it was only the beginning of trouble — he was found in the 
dead o’ night — (continued poor Kate, her voice trembling) — but ye hard it all — 
’t was in the papers — and he was sint beyant seas. Och ! many ’s the night we 


40 


KATE CONNOR. 


have spint crying to think of that shame — or, on our bare, bended knees, praying 
that God might turn his heart. Well, my lady, upon that, Mr. O’Brien made no 
more ado, but said we were a seditious family, and that he had yer Lordship’s 
warrant to turn us out ; and that the cabin — the nate little cabin ye gave to my 
mother — was to go to the gauger.’ 

“ 4 He did not dare to say that !’ interrupted my father, proudly ; 4 he did not 
dare to use my name to a falsehood !’ 

“ * The word — the very word I spoke !’ exclaimed Kate. 4 Mother says I, his 
Lordship would niver take back, for the sin of the son, what he gave to the 
mother ! Sure it was hard upon her grey hairs to see her own boy brought to 
shame, without being turned out of her little place, whin the snow was on the 
ground — in the could night, whin no one was stirring to say, God save ye. I 
remember it well ; he would not suffer us to take so much as a blanket, because 
the bits o’ things were to be canted the next morning, to pay the rint of a field 
which my brother took, but never worked ; my poor mother cried like a baby ; 
and, happing the ould grey cat, that your ladyship gave her for a token, when 
it was a small kit, in her apron, we set off, as well as we could, for Mrs. 
Mahony’s farm. It was more than two miles from us — and the snow drifted — 
and, och ! but sorrow wakens a body ! — and my mother foundered like, and 
couldn’t walk ; so I covered her over, to wait till she rested a bit — and sure 
your token, my lady — the cat ye gave her — kept her warm, for the baste had 
the sinse a’most of a Christian. Well, I was praying for God to direct us for 
the best (but, may-be, I ’m tiring your honours), whin, as if from heaven, up 
drives Barney, and — ’ 

44 4 Who is Barney , Kate V 

44 1 wish, my dear Lord, you could have seen Kate Connor when I asked tha 
question ; the way-worn girl looked absolutely beautiful : I must tell you that 
she had exchanged, by my desire, her tattered gown and travel-stained habili- 
ments, for a smart dress of my waiting-maid’s, which, if it were not correctly 
put on, looked, to my taste, all the better. Her face was pale, but her fine, dark, 
intelligent eyes gave it much and varied expression ; her beautiful hair — even 
Lafont’s trim cap could not keep it within proper bounds — influenced, probably, 
by former habits, came straying (or, or as she would call, shtreeling) down her 
neck, and her mobile mouth was garnished with teeth which many a duchess 
would envy; she was sitting on a low seat, her crossed hands resting on her 
knees, and w r as going through her narrative in as straight-forward a manner as 
could be expected ; but my unfortunate question as to the identity of Barney, 
put her out ; — face, forehead, neck, were crimsoned in an instant ; papa turned 
away his head to smile, and I blushed from pure sympathy. 

44 4 Barney — is Barney — Mahony — my lady,’ she replied, at length, rolling up 
Lafont’s flounce in lieu of her apron — 4 and a great true friend of— of— my 
mother’s ’ 

44 4 And of yours , also, I suspect, Kate,’ said my father. 


KATE CONNOR. 


41 

‘“We were neighbours’ childer, plase yer honourable Lordship, and only 
natural if we had a — friendly ’ 

“ ‘ Love for each other,’ said my lordly papa ; for once condescending to 
banter. 

“ 4 It would be far from the likes o’ me to contradict yer honour,’ she stammered 
forth, at length. 

“ ‘ Go on with your story,’ said I, gravely. 

“‘I’m thinking, my Lord, and my lady, I left off in the snow— oh, no !— he 
was come up with the car well, to be sure, he took us to his mother’s house, 
and, och ! my lady, but it ’s in the walls o’ the poor cabins ye find hearts ! — not 
that I ’m down running the gintry, who, to be sure, know better manners— but 
it ’s a great blessing to the traveller to have a warm fire, and dry lodging, and 
share of whatever ’s going— all for the love of God — and cead mile faille with 
it! Well, to be sure, they never looked to our property ; and Barney thought 
to persuade me to make my mother his mother, and never heeded the disgrace 
that had come to the family; and, knowing his heart was set upon me, his 
mother did the same, and my own mother, too — the crathur ! — wanted me 
settled ; well — they all cried, and wished it done off at once, and it was a sore 
trial that. Barney, says I, let go my hand ; hould yer whisht, all o’ ye, for 
the blessed Virgin’s sake, and don’t be making me mad intirely; — and I seemed 
to gain strength, though my heart was bursting. Look ! (says I) bitter 
wrong has been done us ; but no matter, I know our honourable landlord had 
neither act nor part in it — how could he ? — and my mind misgives that my lady 
has often written to you, mother, for it isn’t in her to forget ould frinds ; but 
I ’ll tell ye what I’ll do, there ’s nobody we know, barring his riverence, and the 
schoolmaster, could tell the rights of it to his honour’s glory upon paper : his 
riverence wouldn’t meddle nor make in it, and the schoolmaster’s a frind of the 
agent’s ; so ye see, dears, I ’ll jist go fair and asy off to London myself, and 
see his Lorship, an’ make him sinsible. And, before I could say my say, they 
all-all but Barney, set up sich a scornful laugh at me as never was heard. 
She’s mad! says one; she’s a fool ! says another; where’s the money to pay 
your expinses ? says a third ; and how could ye find your way, that doesn’t 
know a step o’ the road, even to Dublin? says a fourth. Well, I waited till they 
were all done, and then took the thing quietly. I don’t think, says I, there ’s 
either madness or folly in trying to get one’s own again ; as to the money, it ’s 
but little of that I want, for I ’ve the use of my limbs and can walk, and it ’ll go 
hard if one of ye wont lend me a pound, or, may-be, thirty shillings, and no one 
shall ever lose by Kate Connor, to the value of a brass farthing ; and as to not 
knowing the road, sure I ’ve a tongue in my head ; and, if I hadn’t, the great 
God, that taches the innocent swallows their way over the salt seas, will do as 
much for a poor girl who puts all her trust in Him. My heart ’s against it, said 
Barney, but she ’s in the right ; — and then he wanted to persuade me to go before 
the priest with him ; but no, says I, I ’ll niver do that till I find justice ; I ’ll never 
bring both shame and poverty to an honest boy’s hearth-stone. I ’ll not be tiring 
6 


KATE CONNOR. 


42 

yer noble honours any longer wid the sorrow, and all that, whin I left them; 
they ’d have forced me to take more than the thirty shillings — God knows how 
they raised that same ! — but I thought it enough ; and, by the time I reached 
Dublin, there was eight of it gone ; small way the rest lasted ; and I was ill 
three days, from the sea, in Liverpool. Oh ! when I got a good piece of the 
way — when my bits o’ rags were all sold — my feet bare and bleeding, and the 
doors of the sweet white cottages shut against me, and I was tould to go to my 
parish, — then, then I felt that I was in the land of the could-hearted stranger! 
Och ! the English are a fine, honest people, but no ways tinder ; well, my Lord, 
the hardest temptation I had at all (and here Lady Helen looked up into her god- 
father’s face, with a supplicating eye, and pressed her small white hand affec- 
tionately upon his arm, as if to rivet his most earnest attention) was whin I was 
sitting crying by the road-side, for I was tired and hungry, and who, of all the 
birds in the air, drives up in a sort of a cart, but Mister O’Hay, the great pig 
marchant, from a mile beyant our place ; well, to be sure, it was he wasn’t sur- 
prised when he seen me 1 Come back with me, Kate, honey ! — says he ; I ’m 
going straight home, and I ’ll free your journey ; whin ye return, I ’ll let the boy, 
ye knoio, have a nate little cabin, I ’ve got to let, for (he was plaised to say) you 
desarve it. But I thought I ’d parsevere to the end, so (God bless him for it !) 
he had only tin shillings — seeing he was to receive the money for the pigs he 
had sould at the next town — but what he had he gave me ; that brought me the 
rest of the journey; and if I hadn’t much comfort by the way, sure I had hope, 
and that’s God’s own blessing to the sorrowful; and now, here I am, asking 
justice, in the name of the widow and the orphin, that have been wronged by 
that black-hearted man ; and, sure as there ’s light in heaven, in his garden the 
nettle and the hemlock will soon grow, in place of the sweet roses ; and whin he 

lies in his bed — in his dying bed, the just and holy God .’ My father here 

interposed, and in a calm, firm voice reminded her that, before him, she must 
not indulge in invective. ‘ I humbly ask yer honour’s pardon,’ said the poor girl, 
‘ I lave it all now just to God and yer honour ; and shame upon me that forgot 
to power upon you , my lady, the blessings the ould mother of me sent ye, — full 
and plinty may ye ever know ! — said she from her heart, the cratur ! — may the 
sun niver be too hot, or the snow too could, for ye ! — may ye live in honour, and 
die in happiness, and, in the ind, may heaven be yer bed !’ 

“ You may guess how happy the poor girl became, when sheltered under our 
roof; for the confiding hope, so powerful with those of her country, was strong 
within her, and she had succeeded in assuring herself that at length she would 
obtain justice. 

“ And now, my dear Lord,” continued the Lady Helen, “ tell me, if a fair 
English maiden, with soft blue eyes, and delicate accent, had thus suffered ; if 
driven from her beloved home, with a helpless parent, she had refused the hand 
of the man she loved, because she would not bring poverty to his dwelling — if 
she had undertaken a journey to a foreign land, suffered scorn and starvation- 
been tempted to return, but, until her object was accomplished, until justice was 


KATE CONNOR. 


43 

done to her parent, resisted that temptation — would you say she acted from 
impulse , or from principle V ’ 

“I say,” replied the old gentleman, answering his god-daughter’s winning 
smile, “t-hat you are a saucy gipsy to catch me in this way. Fine times, 
indeed, when a pretty lass of eighteen talks down a man of sixty ! But tell me 
the result.” 

“ Well, now you must hear the sequel to my story ; for it is only half finished ; 
and I assure you the best half is to come : — 

“ Instead of returning to Brighton, my father, without apprizing our worthy 
agent, in three days arranged for our visiting dear Ireland ! Only think, how 
delightful ! — so romantic, and so useful, too ! Kate — you cannnot imagine how 
lovely she looked ; she quite eclipsed Lafont ! Then her exclamations of delight 
were so new, so curious — nothing so original to be met with, even at the soirees 
of the literati. There you may watch for a month without hearing a single 
thing worth remembering ; but Kate’s remarks were so shrewd, so mixed with 
observation and simplicity, that every idea was worth noting. I was so pleased 
with the prospect of the meeting — the discomfiture of the agent — the joy of the 
lovers, and the wedding — (all stories that end properly, end in that way, you 
know) — that I did not even request to spend a day in Bath. We hired a car- 
riage in Dublin, and, just on the verge of papa’s estate, saw Mr. O’Brien, his 
hands in his pockets, his fuzzy red hair sticking out all around his dandy hat, 
like a burning furze-bush, and his vulgar, ugly face as dirty as if it had not been 
washed for a month. He was lording it over some half-naked creatures, who 
were breaking stones, but who, despite his presence, ceased working, as the car- 
riage approached. ‘ There ’s himself,’ muttered Kate. We stopped — and I shall 
never forget the appalled look of O’Brien, when my father put his head out of 
the window — (Cruikshank should have seen it). He could not utter a single 
sentence. Many of the poor men, also, recognized us, and, as we nodded and 
spoke to some we recognized among them, they shouted so loudly, for fair joy, 
that the horses galloped on, not, however, before the triumphant Katherine, 
almost throwing herself out of the window, exclaimed, ‘ And I ’m here, Mr. 
O’Brien, in the same coach wid my Lord and my Lady, and now we ’ll have 
justice !’ at which my father was very angry, and I was equally delighted. 
Two ‘weeny’ children met us at the entrance to the cottage— Barney’s cottage ; 
their healthy cheeks contrasted with the wretchedness of their attire ; and told 
my father, at once, the condition to which his negligence had reduced my poor 
nurse — for the children were hers. I will show them to you one of these days, 
a leetle better dressed. It was worth a king’s ransom to see the happiness of the 
united families of the Connors and Mahonys ; the grey cat, even, purred with 
satisfaction: — then, such a wedding! Only fancy, my dear Lord, my being 
bridesmaid! — dancing an Irish jig on an earthen floor! Ye exquisites and 
exclusives! — how would ye receive the Lady Helen Graves, if this were known 
at Almack’s ? — From what my father saw and heard, when he used his owir 
eyes and ears for the purpose, he resolved to reside, six months out of the twelve 


44 


KATE CONNOR. 


at Castle Graves. You can scarcely imagine how well we get on; the people 
are, sometimes, a little obstinate, in the matter of smoke, and, now and then, an 
odd dunghill, too near the door; and, as they love liberty themselves, do not 
much like to confine their pigs. But these are only trifles. I have my own 
school, on my own plan, which I will explain to you another time, and now will 
only tell you that it is visited by both clergyman and priest ; and I only wish 
that all our absentees would follow our example, and then, my dear god-papa, 
the Irish wquld have good impulses, and act upon right principles.” 



/ 




CAPTAIN ANDY. 


OOD day, Master Andy ; you have a prosperous time 
of it ; plenty of water to work the mill, and plenty of 
corn to grind. Well, Captain, after all, peace is better 
than war.” 

Andy glanced, from under his white hat, one of those 
undefinable looks of quiet humour, perhaps the peculiar 
characteristic of an Irish peasant. He made no reply, 
but elevated his right shoulder, and drew his left hand 
across the lower part of his face, as if seeking to con- 
ceal its expression ; “ yer honour wouldn’t be going to 
Taghmon this fine morning'?” 

“ No, Captain.” 

“ Well, now, Mr. Collins, dear, may I make so bould 
just to beg that you ’d lave off calling me captain ; and 
give me my own dacent name — Andy, as yer honour 
used afore the * Ruction,’ and sure the peaceable time 
has lasted long enough to make ye forget it V 9 

( 15 ) 





46 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


“ So, Captain (I beg your pardon), Andy — the peaceable times have lasted too 
long, you think.” 

“ I ax yer honour’s pardon, I said no sich a thing. May-be, if it was said, it 
would be nothin’ but the truth ; but that ’s neither here nor 'there, and no business 
o’ mine. The government ’s a good government — may-be, ay — may-be, no — 
and the king, God bless him !” — and he lifted his hat reverently from his head — 
“ the king ’s a good king !” 

“ Ay, ay, I remember your famous flag, made out of the green silk curtain, 
and garnished with real laurel leaves, mounted on the top of a sapling ash, the 
motto, ‘ God bless the king, but curse his advisers !’ ” 

“Well, yer honour has a mighty quare way, I must say, of repating gone-by 
things, and tazing a person, quite useless like.” 

The gentleman, who had been amusing himself at the poor miller’s expense, 
now assumed a more serious look and manner, and placing his hand on his 
shoulder with kind familiarity — 

“ Andrew,” said he, “ when I speak seriously of by-gone days — of times of 
terror and bloodshed, there is one feeling that absorbs every other — gratitude 
to the noble little Captain of the Bannow corps, who, when one of my own 
tenants declared * it was the duty of every man in the division to spill Pro- 
testant blood, until the United men could stand in it knee-deep,’ rushed forward, 
and, baring his bosom, as be stood before me, called to his men to strike 
there , for that not a hair of my head should fall while he had arms to use in my 
defence.” 

The miller turned away for a moment, and then, taking off his hat, extended 
his broad hand to the gentleman, making sundry scrapes, and divers indescribable 
gestures. 

“ May I make so bould as to ax yer honour to walk in, and ate or drink some- 
thing'? and, besides, I had a little matther o’ my own that I wanted to spake to 
ye about : and, sure, ye need never think of what ye ’ve jist mintioned ; for, if 
it hadn’t been for yer good word, thim children o’ mine would have had no father. 
I was ready enough to die for the cause like a man, dacently ; but to be hung, 
jisi for nothing, like a dog, was another thing. It ’ll niver come to that wid me 
now, God be praised ! To be sure, we all have our own notions ; but I ’ll not 
meddle or make any more, in sich matters ; for all the boys wanted to be com- 
manders and gentlemen at once, and wouldn’t be said or led by their betthers. 
But I ax pardon for talking, and ye standing outside the mill-house, when the 
woman, and the fire, all ’s widin, that ’ud rejoice to see yer two feet on the harth- 
stone, even if it were of pure gould.” 

“ Oh, then, kindly welcome, sir ! Jenny, set a chair for the gintleman ; arrah, 
bother, not that one wid the three legs ! (Tim, is that the patthern o’ yer man- 
ners, to stand gnawing yer thumb there ; where ’s yer bow ? Mabby, set down 
the grawl, can’t ye, and make yer curtshy.)— Sure it ’s proud we ’re of the 
honour,” continued bustling Mrs. Andy, “ and grateful ; and what will yer honour 
take? (Tim, have done picking the bread.)— A cruddy egg and a rasher, or 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


47 

some hot cake and frish butter, yer honour, as frish as the day, made wid my 
own hands. Jenny, quiet that child, will ye? Oh, Mabby, Mabby, run for the 
dear life ; there ’s the ould pig— bad cess to her !— and all the bonneens* through 
the cabbages. I humbly beg yer honour’s pardon (courtesying), but, may-be 
yer honour would just taste ” 

“ Will ye hould yer whisht, Biddy ?” interrupted the Captain, stepping from 
the inner room, carrying a stone jar, and a long green bottle ; “ she has a tongue 
in her head, sir, and likes to use it,” he continued, placing both jar and 
bottle on the table ; “ but here ’s something fit for a mornin’ for Saint Patrick 
himself, and yer honour must taste it— raale Innishown ; or, if ye’re too 
delicate (striking the jar), the likes of this isn’t in e’er a cellar in the county.” 
He filled a glass, and presented it to Mr. Collins, who looked at, tasted, and 
finally drank it off. 

“ It came from foreign parts, sir, as a little testimonial from one whose last 
gift it will be.” 

“ Indeed, Andy ! pity such cordials should be last gifts.” 

“True for ye, sir. Tim, make yer bow to the gintleman, and take yer 
‘ Voster’ out under the sunny hedge, and yer slate, my man, and do two sums in 
fractions, for practice. Jenny, woman, lift out your wheel, and see that yer 
brother minds the sums.” 

“ Don’t ye see she ’s getting out the white cloth, for a snack for his honour ? 
I wish ye ’d let the girl alone ; or, any way, lave her do my bidding,” con- 
tinued the wife ; “ ye ’ve no earthly dacency in ye, or ye ’d ha’ tould me his 
honour was coming in, and then I could have got something proper, not trust- 
ing to rashers and eggs, and yer outlandish drops;” and the angry dame, angry 
because she could not pay “ his honour” sufficient attention, bustled about more 
than ever. 

“ The devil ’s in the woman ! But — save us all ! — they can’t help it,” muttered 
Andrew ; “ may-be, while she ’s doing the eggs, yer honour would walk out, 
and look at the new spokes in the milbwheel, and the little things I ’ve been 
trying at; thank God, we’ve no middle men in this parish, but resident land- 
lords, who give every earthly encouragement to the improving tenant, and 
never rise the rint because the ground looks well ; only a kind word, and every 
praise in life, and encourage ye wid odd presents : a wheel, a bale o’ flax, or a 
lock o’ wool to the girls ; a new plough or harrow, or some fine seed potatoes 
to the boys ; and that ’s the true rason why the Parish o’ Bannow is the flower 
o’ the country.”f 

The neighbouring fields looked, indeed, beautiful ; and the bright greenery 

* Young pigs. 

t This statement holds good to the letter. It is a commom occurrence for the tenants of Mr. 
Boyse — even those who have no leases — to make him their banker ; exhibiting to him the profits 
they make out of the land, not only with justifiable pride, but with perfect confidence that the 
more they make, the better pleased their landlord will be, and without the remotest dread tha 
their increased prosperity will be a cause of rising the rent. 


48 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


extended, at either side, around the mill-stream ; here and there, a gnarled oak, 
or a gay thorn tree, added interest to the landscape; while the sweet, waving 
willow's, rooting themselves in the very depth of the rippling water, which, 
dancing between their trunks, and sparkling through their weeping foliage, 
formed a picture as calmly beautiful as even fruitful and merry England could 
supply. Andrew', from some cause or other, forgot the new “ spokes” when 
he reached the mill-house with Mr. Collins, and peered behind the piled sacks, 
to ascertain that no one was in the small square room, which contained flour 
bags and piles of fresh grain, a long form, and sundry winnowing sheets, flails 
and sifters. 

“ I have got something particular to say to yer honour, but couldn’t for the 
woman; but I’ll boult her out (fastening the door). Sure I’m king o’ the castle 
here, any w'ay. Oh ! don’t lane aginst thim bags, sir ; there ’s no getting the 
white out o’ the English cloth, at all, at all. Sure the binch — (I wish yer honour 
was on the raale binch, and it ’s then we ’d have justice !) — the binch ’ll do the 
turn.” And Andy pulled off his wig, dusted with it the form, or, as he called it, 
“ binch,” replaced the powdered “ bob” over his own black hair, crossed Lis feet, 
gave the wig a settling pull, folded his arms, and, leaning against the door-post, 
commenced the disclosure of his secret, in a confidential under-tone : — 

“ Yer honour remimbers ould times 1 , I’m thinking?” — Mr. Collins smiled. 

“ And the Bannow corps ?” — another smile. 

“Well; I know yer honour’s sinsible that, though the boys would have me 
head thim, yet I nivir thought they ’d have turned to the religion, and murdered 
the innocent craturs o’ Protestants for nothin’, or, as God ’s my judge, I ’d have 
let thim all go to Botany, afore I ’d any hand in it; but that’s all gone and past, 
and neither here nor there. Well ; whin once I was in, I thought it right to 
behave myself properly. But there were bloody sins o’ both sides, as nataral ; 
— burnings and massacres — and all bad ; and time was, whin I couldn’t, for the 
life o’ me, tell which was worst ; only the poor Catholics had no arms, but the 
bits o’ pikes, for the most part, to make fight wid. Och ! it was bitter bad ! 
Well, yer honour remimbers Thomas Jarratt, the farmer, who lived on the hill- 
side, far from kith or kin ; a lone man, wid one son, a wild chap — yet kindly ; 
fierce — but gentle-like at times, and a generous boy ; striking handsome, and 
prouder than many more rich and powerful nor himself. Well, he always had 
his own way ; the poor father doted down on him ; and, for many a day, he was 
the white-headed boy o’ the whole country. 

“ Now, sir, dear, call another to mind. Ould James Corish, though suspicted 
o’ being a black Protestant (I ax pardon, but that was what they were called) , 
was well counted by all his neighbours; he had seen’ a dale o’ years, and there 
were not many happier ; for his prosperity had lasted for more than half a 
hundred, and appeared sartin to continue for the remainder o’ his days. He had 
had a joyful fireside o’ childer ; but they w T ere all gone except two : Mary, the 
eldest — so larned, so wise, and so charming; and James, a fine, gay boy, rising 
seventeen ; thoughtless — but all are thoughtless, sir, before they mix in the 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


49 

world, to drink of its bitterness, or be marked by its corruption. It used to 
do my heart good, of a Sunday, to see that family passing on to their own 
church. 1 he ould man, his silver hair falling over his shoulders ; his two childer, 
the one, wid her dark long curls half hid under her straw hat, and her short 
scarlet petticoat, that set off the white stockings and slight ankles ; the other 
looking so cheerful, his light blue eyes jumping out of his head wid innocent 
1 joy* Well, sir, young Thomas Jarratt cast an eye upon the colleen, and, as he 
was no ways a strict Catholic, ould Corish thought, may-be, he might answer for 
Mary, as he was well to do in the world ; and, though he didn’t get any grate 
encouragement— to say grate— yet, for all that, he went in and out, and the two 
boys were very much together, and no one dare look at Mary, on account o’ 
young Tom. Yer honour remimbers the militia regiments; well, young Corish 
was drawed to go in thim.” 

“ I do. I remember it well,” replied Mr. Collins ; “ I was there the evening 
he went to join the Wexford militia. ‘God bless you, my only boy !’ sobbed 
the poor father ; ‘ it ’s like spilling one’s own blood, to fight against one’s neigh- 
bours ; but, God bless you, boy ; do your duty, as your father did before you ; 
only remember, a Protestant soldier need not be an Orangeman.’ Mary neither 
spoke nor wept ; but she pushed the curling locks from off her brother’s brow, 
and mournfully gazed upon it ; and when, laughing at her fears, he affectionately 
kissed her cheek, still she looked sad ; and long and anxiously did her eyes 
follow him, until his form was lost in the twilight mist, as he ascended the 
mountain of Forth.” 

“ Poor cratur ! — poor cratur I” sighed the miller ; “ well, sir, you know I was 
over-persuaded to join the boys, and we used to have little meetings in this very 
room, and I didn’t care to let the wife know anything of it, at first ; but she 
found it out, somehow or other (the women are very ’cute), and was all aginst 
it ; but she corned over a bit at the thought of my being a captain, and she, to 
be sure, a captain’s lady ; well, we hid a good many pikeheads in the grain, and 
sint more to the boys o’ Watherford, into the very town, though it was under 
martial law at the time : but we hid them among brooms, and in sacks o’ flour, 
and what not. The wife, one day, had crossed the Scar, to give a small sack 
o’ barley-male to one at the other side, and who should she meet this side, and 
she cornin’ back, but young Thomas Jarratt. * Good morrow, Mistress Andy,’ 
says he. 4 Good morrow kindly,’ says she. 4 May-be,’ says he, 4 ye won’t tell a 
body where ye ’ve been.’ To be sure she up with the lie at once. 4 That won’t 
do for me,’ says he ; 4 1 know what ye ’re after, and good rason, too, for I ’m 
sworn in ; and, by the same token, the pass-word into your own mill-house is 
— green boy.’ Well, she was struck quite comical, for she thought of his father’s 
white head, and of the poor lad’s own rosy cheek ; but, above all, of sweet 
Mary Corish. 4 Oh, Thomas !’ says she, 4 sure it wasn’t my man that united ye ; 
oh ! think of yer old father, and the black-eyed girl that loves ye.’ Och ! the 
laugh he gave was heart-scalding. 4 No,’ says he, 1 yer husband would call me 
a boy ; and as to Mary, some one has come betwixt us, and she believes me bad, 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


50 

and ye know I wouldn’t desave her,’ and away he goes like a shot. For sartin, 
sorry was I whin I hard it, but it was too true ; Mary soon got the wind o’ the 
word, and it was too late — he wouldn’t lade nor drive; and it was one of the 
Scarroges that drew him in, for which the same man niver had luck nor grace — 
for the boy was too young intirely to be brought into sich hardship. Well, I 
needn’t tell about thim times. Thomas flourished the green flag, and did it 
bravely ; but in the battle of ‘ The Rocks,’ it was his fate to cut down the brother 
of poor Mary. James Corish, however, wasn’t much hurt, and, wid others, was 
carried to the barn of Scullabogue. I had little power, excipt in my own regi- 
ment, and I couldn’t help the mischief. Yer honour knows, better nor me, what 
that cratur, Mary, wint through.” 

“ I remember, as if it were but yesterday,” said Mr. Collins ; “ poor old James 
fled with Mary to Ross, but the knowledge of her brother’s danger came like 
a blight to her young heart, and long and eager were her inquiries as to the fate 
of the Wexford militia. A report reached her, that her brother was a prisoner 
in the barn of Scullabogue, and that the barn was to be set on fire that night or 
the next.” 

“ I don’t like to hear tell of that barn, at all, at all ; but I should like to larn 
from your honour how she made her way from Ross to Scullabogue ; you were 
in the town at the time, so ye have a good right to know all about it.” 

“ True, Andy ; but what has that to do with your secret ?” 

“ Och ! more nor yer honour guesses, any way. I remimber her at the barn, 
but the cratur niver tould me how she got there.” 

“ Poor thing ! — she wrapped her blue mantle around her, and, with a blanched 
cheek, but a resolute eye and firm step, she passed the Ross sentries ; the shades 
of night were thickening, yet the intrepid girl pursued her noiseless way towards 
the prison, or perhaps the grave of her brother. When some distance from 
Ross, she heard the trampling of horses ; they drew nearer and nearer, and, for 
the first time, the necessity of avoiding the high road occurred to her. She con- 
cealed herself behind some furze, and, as they passed, their suppressed voices 
and disordered dress informed her to what party they belonged. She next trod 
her path across the country over the matted common, and through the swampy 
moor ; nor did her steps fail her, until within a mile or two of Scullabogue.” 

“ Poor colleen !” said the miller. 

“ The grey mist of morning had succeeded the night, and the thrush and 
blackbird were hailing the dawning day, as Mary sank down, exhausted, on the 
greensward. * Merciful heaven !’ she exclaimed, ‘ I am near, very near, yet I 
cannot reach it !’ and she clasped her hands in silent, yet bitter agony. At this 
moment she saw a horse quietly grazing upon the common, and, with a despe- 
rate effort rushed towards the spot, unfastened her cloak, and girthed it round the 
animal, like a pillion — sprang on its back, and having previously converted the 
ribands of her hat into a bridle, at a fearless and quick pace she gained the main 
road, encountered the rebel outposts, passed them, by naming your name, and, 
at length, halted opposite the barn door.” 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


61 

“ Well, I mind it now, sir, as if but yesterday,” interrupted Andy ; “ she look- 
ed like a banshee in the early light ; her black hair streaming over her shoulders, 
and her eyes darting fire, as she flung herself off the panting baste. The officer 
over the door was — Thomas Jarratt. 

“ * And you Thomas,’ said she, quite distracted like, 4 You here a commander! 
—you know me well ! The fire blazed for ye, the roof sheltered ye, the wel- 
come smiled for ye in my father’s house, since we were both childer. I have 
left my ould father, Thomas, and have come all alone, to ask these men my 
brother’s life, or to tell them I will die with him !’ 

“ 4 You are mad, Mary,’ he answered : 4 neither the captain nor I could save 
him if we would ; you, Mary, I can save ; but as for James — there ’s too much 
Orange blood in the corps already.’ That was the word he spoke. She fell on 
her knees, clenched her hands, and, in a deep, smothering voice, sobbed out, 
4 Let me see him, then ; let me see James once — only once more !’ 

44 The young man, without making answer, rushed into the barn, and in a 
moment returned, from crowds of famishing, death doomed craturs, with James 
Corish. James thought they had brought him forth to the death, and he tried to 
draw up his fainting, bleeding, shadow-like body, to meet it as a man ; but when 
he saw his dear sister Mary, he w 7 ould have sunk to the earth, had she not sprung 
to his side. 

44 4 Now, mark me boys !’ cried she, as, half turning from her brother, she kept 
him up with one arm, 4 now, mark me ! — the man that forces him from me, shall 
first tear the limbs from my body. And if there be one amongst ye who denies 
a sister’s claim to her dying brother, let him bury his pike in my heart, or burn 
me wid him.’ 

44 She flung him on the nearest horse, and mounting behind, guided the ani- 
mal’s bridle. The last sound of the galloping, and the last sight of her streaming 
black hair, were long gone, before hand or foot w r as moved ; they stood like 
stocks and stones, even in the time of destruction, wondering at woman’s love.* 
4 Fire the barn !’ was the next sound I hard, and that from Thomas Jarratt’s own 
mouth. I seized his arm. 4 What do you mane V said I. 4 Fire the barn !’ he 
repeated, stamping, and hell’s own fire flashing, like lightning, from his blood- 
red eyes. 4 Isn’t he half murdered by this hand V he muttered to himself ; 4 and 
isn’t she whole murdered, or worse? — for I know that, in twinty-four hours she ’ll 
be either mad or dead. United Irishmen!’ he screamed out, waving his green 
flag, 4 the soldiers are in Ross.’ And, sticking his pike into a bresneugh, some 
devils had lit, he rushed towards the door. I saw it was all over, so I shouted 
to the Bannow boys to close around their captain ; and, sure enough, out of my 
two hundred and odd, there weren’t five that didn’t march home that day to 
their own cabins. Och ! but the crackling, and the shrieks, and the yells, as we 
hurried on !” 

* The circumstance here recorded is strictly true. I have seen my heroic countrywoman 
Mary Corish, often — but never without grief. The effort was too much for her mind, and her 
reason sank under it. 


52 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


The old miller covered his face with his hands, and pressed his rough fingers 
against his eyeballs, as if to destroy such horrid recollections. 

“ Poor Mary ! — she gained Ross in safety,” said Mr. Collins, “ and her father 
rejoiced much. James soon recovered ; but we all know the wretched Thomas 
was right. When she arose from that fearful brain fever, her reason was per- 
fectly gone. You are all kind to her, very kind. She seems more happy wan- 
dering about your mill, and gathering flowers for your children, than in her 
brother’s farm-house. I remember well old Jarratt’s funeral. His son was 
killed ; but, I believe his body was never found.” 

“ He was not killed, sir,” replied the miller, looking earnestly at Mr. Collins. 
“ Many a night after, he slept in this very room.” 

“ Here, Andy ! — what, here ? — and you knew it ?” 

“ Yer honour may say that, when it was myself put him in it.” 

“ But, Andy, your own life was not then safe from the king’s troops. How 
could you commit such a very imprudent action (to call it by no harsher term), 
as to harbour a proscribed man, when a rich price was set upon his body, dead 
or alive ? And such a wretch, too ! I am perfectly astonished !” 

“No need in life of that last, sir. As to my own head, it was but loosely on 
my shoulders then— sure enough ; — as to the prudence, it ’s not the character of 
the counthry ; — as to the price set upon his head, none o’ my breed, seed, or 
generation, were iver informers (my curse on the black word !), or iver will be, 
plase the Almighty. And as to his being a wretch — we are all bad enough, and 
to spare. But, had he murdered my own brother, and, after, come — ay, with 
the very blood upon his hands — and thrown himself upon my marcy — I ’m a 
true-born Irishman, sir, who nivir refused purtection, when wanted, to saint or 
sinner. But the fair and beautiful boy, to see him, and he dressed like an ould 
woman pilgrim ; his cheek hollow, his eye dead, so worn ; and no life in him, 
but bitther sorrow, and heavy tears for sin. We kept him here, unknownst, as 
good as five weeks, and then shipped him off beyant seas, far enough.” 

“ But the money, Andy — how did you get money to fit him out ?” 

“ Is it the money ? — his father’s land was canted ; and, to be sure, he couldn’t 
touch a pinny, and he banned ; but I ’ll tell you who gave some of it — young 
James Corish. I knew the good drop was in him, and so I tould him all about 
it ; and, says he, ‘ There have been many examples made of the misfortunate, 
misguided people, Andy,’ says he ; ‘and if he did hew me down, why, ’t was in 
battle, and I ’d ha’ done the same to him ; but the drink and the bad company 
made him mad : any way, he took me out o’ the barn ; and, more than all, sure 
they loved each other; and more than all to the back o’ that, doesn’t the 
blessed word o’ God tell us to love our enemies, and to do good to thim that ill 
use us? Sure, that’s the true religion, Andy; and Catholic or Protestant can’t 
turn their tongues to betther than the words o’ the gospel o’ pace ;’ and, without 
more to do, he gives me twinty hard guineas, and a small Bible, and I gave 
Thomas the Bible on the sly ; and, one w r ay or other, we sint him clane out o’ 
the land.” 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


53 

“ And did you never hear of the unfortunate young man since V ’ inquired Mr. 
Collins. 

“ Did I not 1 — sure it was he sint me over the cordial ye tasted; and more 
than all, sure he’s come over himself, in the strange brig that’s at the new 
quay.” 

“ Good God !” said Mr. Collins, starting up ; “ he ’ll be hung as certainly as 
he lands.” 

“ Och ! no danger in life o’ that,” replied Andy, quietly. 

“ You’re mad — absolutely mad !” 

“ I ax yer honour’s pardon, I ’m not mad ; and sure it ’s nat’ral for him to wish 
to lave his bones in his own land.” 

“ Leave his bones on a gibbet !” exclaimed the gentleman, greatly agitated. 

“ I wanted particular to spake to yer honour about it, as he is to land to- 
night, under the ould church, and Father Mike is to be there, and Friar Mad- 
den, and not more than one or two others, excipt the poor boy that brought 
him over.” 

“ As sure as he lands,” said Mr. Collins, “ he will be in the body of Wexford 
Jail in twelve hours.” 

“ Well, that ’s comical, too,” replied Andy, quietly,— “ sind a dead body to 
Waxford Jail 

Mr. Collins looked perplexed. 

“Yer honour’s not sinsible, I see; sure it’s the dead body o’ what was 
Thomas Jarratt that ’s come over ; and, by the same token, a letther (the priest 
had it), written — (he had a dale o’ schooling) — -jist before the breath left him ; 
and he prays us to lay his body in Bannow Church, as near the ould windy 
as convanient, without disturbing any one’s rest ; and, on account he doesn’t 
wish a wake, he begs us, if we want him to have pace, to put him in the ground 
at twelve o’ the night, by the light of four torches. I can’t see the use of the 
four, barring he took it from the little hymn — 

‘ Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, 

God bless the bed that I lie on.’ 

“ But it ’s hard telling dead men’s fancies ; be that as it may, the letther ’s a 
fine letther — as good as a sarmint ; and he sint a handsome compliment to his 
reverence, but nothing said about masses; and he sint forty guineas to James 
Corish, and remimbered Mary; and more to myself than iver he got from me; 
but, says he, ‘ I can pay the living, but what do the dead ask of me V And the 
boy that came over wid him (an ould comarade), that was forced to fly, for a 
bit of a scrape, nothing killin’ bad, only a bit of a mistake, where a chap was 
done for, without any malice — only all a mistake ; well, he tould me, though all 
worldly matthers prospered, his soul troubled him night and day, but he used to 
read the Bible at times (sure it ’s the word o’ God), and sob, and pray ; and he 
wasted, while his goods increased ; but where ’s the use o’ my delaying yer 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


54 

nonour now ? I only want to ax ye if there ’s anything contrary to law, in land- 
ing and burying the poor ashes to night ?” 

“ Nothing that I know of, certainly.” 

“ But is yer honour sartin sure about it ? Becase, if there was any earthly 
doubt, I ’d not go aginst the law now, the least bit, for the price of the ’varsal 
world ; and sure, I ’d go to the grave any time, night or day, to keep the cratur 
asy, only, if it ’s aginst the law ” 

“ I assure you, Andy, it is not,” replied Mr. Collins ; “ and, if you will allow 
me, I should like to be there myself ; it is wild and singular, and Father Mike 
will not object, I dare say.” 

“ Och ! yer honour ’s kind and good.” 

It was agreed that they should meet at twelve that night. Mr. Collins, of 
course, partook of Mrs. Andy’s hospitality, and, exchanging kindly greetings with 
the honest miller’s family, turned his steps homeward. 

It was nearly midnight when Mr. Collins gained the cliffs that overhang the 
little harbour of Bannow ; the moon was emerging from some^light, fleecy 
clouds, that shaded, without obscuring, her brightness, and, as she mounted 
higher in the heavens, her beams formed a silvery line on the calm waters, that 
were fleetly crossed by a small boat: at the prow stood a tall, slight figure, 
enveloped in a cloak ; and, on the strand, four or five men were grouped in ear- 
nest conversation. The path Mr. Collins had to descend was unusually steep, 
and various portions of fallen cliff made it difficult, if not dangerous. As he 
passed along, he thought the shadow of a human form crossed his way ; but the 
improbability of such an event, and the flickering light, made him forget the cir- 
cumstance, even before he joined the priest, and Andy, on the beach. No word 
was spoken, but hands were silently grasped in hands, and they prepared to 
assist in the landing of the coffin ; it was large, covered with black cloth, and 
on the lid — “ Thomas Jarratt, aged 42,” was inscribed. The simple procession 
quickly formed. The priest and friar lighted each a torch ; the young man 
who brought the body over, still shrouded in his cloak, supported the head of the 
coffin ; Andy and another bore the feet ; and the remaining torches, and Mr. 
Collins, brought up the singular procession. As they slowly ascended, the 
torches threw a wild, red light over the mounds of cliff, fringed with sea moss 
and wild flowers, fragments of dark rock, and tangled furze, which the hardened 
soil appeared incapable of nourishing. When they had nearly arrived at the 
highest point, Mr. Collins distinctly saw the passing shadow he had before 
imagined he had observed, fade, as it were, behind a broken mass, composed of 
earth and rock ; at the same moment, all the party perceived it ; the priests 
commanded a halt, and murmured an Ave Mary. 

“ What was it ?” whispered one. 

“ Lord presarve us, it ’s lucky they ’re wid us ; no blight can come where the 
priests do be,” replied Andy. 

Without further hinderance they crossed the grassy plain that extends 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


55 


between the ruined church and the cliffs, and entered the long aisle, where 
no more — 

“ The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise.” 

If there be a solitude like unto that of the sepulchre, it is the solitude of ruins. 
In mountain loneliness you may image an unpeopled world, fresh from God’s 
own hand — pure, bright, and beautiful, as the new-born sun ; but a moss-grown 
ruin speaks powerfully, in its loneliness, of gone-by days — of bleached and 
marrowless bones. 

All was silent as the hollow grave which yawned at their feet. The innocent 
birds, that nestled among the wall-flowers and ivy, frightened at the unusual 
light, screamed and fluttered in their leafy dwellings. The moon shone brightly 
through the large window, as the bearers rested the coffin on the loose earth. 

“He requested,” said Father Mike, addressing Mr. Collins, “ that his body 
should be placed in the ground without so much as a prayer for the repose of 
his soul — that was heathenish ; yet his other words were those of a penitent and 
a Christian.” 

The coffin was deposited in its narrow home ; and Andy held the torch over 
the grave, to ascertain that all had been properly managed. 

The priest, the friar, and Mr. Collins, stood fixed in silent prayer, and the 
passing night-breeze shook the withered leaves from the dark overhanging ivy. 
Each individual was surrounded by the urns and tombs of his ancestors ; nay, 
more, by those of relatives, who, in the bud or blossom of life, had passed away, 
and were no more seen ; and it was not to be wondered at, that the silent power 
of death, and the everlasting doom of eternity, pressed heavily on the hearts of 
them all at that midnight hour. At this very moment, a dark shadow obscured 
the cold moonbeams that streamed from the window ; a piercing shriek echoed 
along the broken walls ; and, even while their eyes were fixed on a female, who 
stood, with streaming hair, and extended arms, on the large window-frame — she 
sprang from the elevation, with unerring bound, into the open grave, and echo 
was again awakened by the fearful sound made by her feet upon the coffin-lid. 

“ Heaven and earth !” exclaimed Andy, as he raised the light, “ it ’s Mary 
Corish !” 

She seized the torch from the astonished miller, lowered it, so as to read the 
inscription, which she distinctly repeated, and fell, without farther motion, on 
the coffin of him she had loved, even in madness. They raised her, tenderly, 
out of the grave, but the pulses of life were slackening, and the film of approach- 
ing death was stealing over the wild brightness of her eyes. 

“ She is passing,” said Mr. Collins, chafing her damp temples as he spoke ; 
“ poor Mad Mary !” 

“ I am not mad,” she murmured, and her utterance was very feeble — “ not 
mad now; I was so, and ye all pitied me ; God bless ye ! I know you — and 

you — and you — and I know him — that’s ” with a last effort she turned 

towards the grave, looked into it, and expired. 


56 


CAPTAIN ANDY. 


No one could ever discover how she was apprized of the intended funerai 
but as she was always wandering about the sea-shore, it was supposed she hai 
overheard some of the conversation that had occurred on the subject. 

Poor Mary ! — the innocent children who gather ocean-weed and many-tinted 
shells on the strand of Bannow, when they see the white sea-bird seeking its 
lodging in the clefted rock, after the sun has set, and the grey mist is rising, as 
if to shield the repose of nature, softly and fearfully whisper to each other, that 
it is time to return to their homes, for that Mad Mary’s ghost will be flitting 
around the aged church of Bannow. 








“TAKE IT EASY.” 



HEN he gets into those humours, Aileen, all ye 
can do with him, is — to take it asy.” 

“ Take it asy , indeed !” repeated the pretty bride, 
with a toss of her head, and a curl of her lip ; “ it ’s 
asy to say, take it asy. I ’m sure if I had thought 
Mark was so passionate, I ’d have married Mike !” 

“ But Mike was mighty dark,” replied old Aunt 
Alice, with a mysterious shake of her head. 

“Well, so he was: but then I might have had 
Matthew.” 

“ Ah ! ah !” laughed old Alice ; “ he was the 
worst bird of the nest ! Look, ye can wind Mark 
round yer finger, as I wind this worsted thread — 
if ye ’ll only take it asy .” 

“ Oh ! I wish — I wish I had known, before, that 
men were so ill-contrived ! I ’d have died sooner 
than have married,” sobbed Aileen ; who, to con- 

( 57 ) 




& 






58 


“ TAKE IT EASY.’ 


less the truth, had been so much petted by the neighbours, on account of her 
beauty, that it would have required a large proportion of love, and a moderate 
allowance of wisdom, to change the village coquette into a sober wife — I say a 
large proportion of love : “ Wit,” to quote the old adage, “ may win a man,” 
but wit never kept one : unless a woman cultivate the affections, even more than 
knowledge, she will never secure a husband’s heart. It is to this cultivation, 
indeed, that women owe — and to which, only, they ought to owe — their influ- 
ence ; and the neglect of which inevitably engenders that mutual distrust which 
can end only in misery. 

“ Ah, whisht ! avourneen !” said Alice, “ sure I told ye all along. ‘ Mark,’ 
says I, * is all fire and tow — but it ’s out in a minute ; Mike is dark , and deep as 
the bay of Dublin; and Matthew is all to the bad intirely.’ You’ve got the 
best of the three. And ye can manage him just as the south wind, that ’s blow- 
ing now — God bless it ! — manages the thistle-down that ’s floating through the 
air, if ye 'll take it asy .” 

At first, Aileen pouted, then she sat down to her wheel — was too much out 
of temper to do what she was doing, well — broke her thread — pushed it from 
her — took up her knitting — dropped the stitches — shook the needles — and, of 
course, dropped some more. 

“ Take it asy ,” said aunt Alice, looking at her, over her spectacles. 

Aileen flung the knitting away, clasped her arms round her aunt’s neck, rested 
her head on her bosom, and wept outright. 

“ Let ’s go into the garden, sit under the ould lime tree, and watch the bees 
that are near swarming,” observed aunt Alice, “ and we ’ll talk yer trouble over, 
avourneen. It ’s very sorry I am to see ye taking on so, for a thrifle, at the first 
going off. But you ’ll know better by-’n-by, when real troubles come.” 

Poor Aileen, like all young people, thought her troubles were very real, but 
she held her peace ; until, observing the bees more than usually busy, she mut- 
tered, “ I wonder, aunt, you don’t tell the bees to take it asy.” 

“ So I would, dear, if I saw them quarrelling ; but they are too wise to quar- 
rel among themselves, whatever they do with furriners. They fly together, live 
together, sing together, work together, and have but the one object and aim in 
life ; ah, then, many ’s the good lesson we may learn from the bees, besides that 
which teaches us to bring all that ’s good and useful to our own homes.” The 
old woman paused ; and then added, “ Sit ye down here, my child, and listen to 
what I’m going to tell ye. Ye know well, avourneen, I was lawfully married, 
first, by ould Father John, to Richard Mulvaney — my heart’s first love he was ; 
heaven be his bed this blessed day, and grant we may meet above the world and 
its real troubles ! Aileen, it was, indeed, a trouble to see my brave, young, hand- 
some husband, dragged out of the blue waters of the Shannon ; to find that, 
when I called, he could not answer; when I wept, he could not comfort; that 
my cheek rested for hours on his lips, and he did not kiss it ; and that never 
more, in this world, would I hear his sweet and loving voice !” 

Fourscore years and five had passed over the head of that woman : and her 


“ TAKE IT EASY.” 


59 

age was as beautiful, according to its beauty, as had been her youth. She had 
been married three times ; yet her eyes filled with tears at the remembrance of 
the love and sorrow of her early days, and it was some time before she could 
continue. , 

“ Well, dear, one day, Richard and I had some little tiff, and I said more than 
I ought to have said. And it was by the same token, a fine midsummer morn- 
ing; I strayed out to our garden, and picked up a shiny snail; and as I looked 
at the snail, I remembered how, the last midsummer day, I had put just such 
another between two plates, and sat for an hour by the rising sun, with the fore- 
finger of my left hand crossed over the forefinger of my right hand ; and then, 
as thrue as life, when I lifted the plate, the thing had marked as purty an R, and 
a piece of as beautiful an M, as the schoolmaster himself could write, upon the 
plate ; and I cried to remember how glad I was then, and how sad now ; and, 
at last, I cried myself to sleep. Alanna machree ! I was little more than a 
child, — not all out sixteen. Well, dear, in my drame, I suppose I must call it, I 
saw the beautifulest fairy (the Lord save us !) — the very handsomest of the good 
people that ever the eyes of woman looked upon, — a little deeshy-dawshy cray- 
thur, footing it away, all round the blossom of a snow-white lily ; now twisting 
round upon the tip of her tiny toe: then, as if she was joining hands round, 
down the middle and up again, to the tune of the ‘ Rakes of Mallow.’ ” 

“ The ‘ Rakes of Mallow !’ ” exclaimed Aileen. 

“ The ‘Rakes of Mallow,’ ’’repeated Alice, solemnly; “I heard it as plain as 
I hear the rising march of the bees at this blessed minute. Well, of a suddent, 
she made a spring, and stood upright as a dart upon the green and goolden 
crown, in the very midst of the flower, and pushed back her ringlets, and settled 
her dress at a pocket looking-glass, not so big as a midge’s wing ; then, all in a 
minute she looked at me, and said, ‘ I don’t like the sight of a wet eye ; — what 
ails ye, young woman V 

“Well, to be sure, my heart came to my lips; but I had too much manners 
not to answer the great lady ; and, * Madam,’ says I, * my eyes would be as dry, 
though not as bright as yer honour’s, if it wasn’t for my husband, my lady, who 
wants to have a way and a will of his own.’ 

“ * It ’s the way with all the men, my own husband into the bargain,’ says the 
queen, for she was no less; ‘and there’s no use fighting for the upper hand,’ 
says the queen, ‘ for both the law and the prophets are against us in that ; and 
if it comes to open war,’ says the queen, ‘ we get the worst of it : if your hus- 
band falls into a bad temper, or a queer temper, — if he is cross, or unkind, or 
odd — take it asy,’ says the queen, ‘ even if he does not come round at once. 
This quiet way of yours will put you in his heart, or him at your feet (which i*» 
pretty much the same thing) at last : gentleness does wonders for us women, in 
Fairy-land. You could hardly believe what power it has; it’s a weapon of 
great strength entirely, in the hands of a purty woman — and you are very purty 
for a mortal,’ says she again, looking at me through the eye of a heart’s-ease, 
which she wore about her neck for a quizzing-glass. 


60 


“TAKE IT EASY.” 


“ ‘ I thank you, my sweet and beautiful lady,’ says I, ‘ for your compliment. 
‘Ah! ah!’ and she laughed, and her laugh was full of joy and hope, like the 
music of the priest’s own silver bell. ‘ It ’s no harm,’ she continued, ‘ if now 
and then you give him a taste of that which makes your eyes so bright, and 
your cheeks so red, just now.’ 

“ ‘ What ’s that, madam V says I. 

“ ‘ Flattery,’ says she. ‘ Make a man, be he fairy, or be he mortal, pleased 
with himself, and he is sure to be pleased with you.’ And then she laughed again. 
‘ Whatever he says or does,’ says her majesty, while she was getting into a goold- 
en saddle, a horseback on a great dragon-fly, dressed in a beautiful jacket and 
gown of green velvet, with a silver riding- whip in her hand, ‘ take it asy,’ says 
she ; and I heard her laugh and sing when she was out of sight, and her sweet 
voice shook a shower of white rose-leaves, from a bush, on my face. And when 
I awoke, I saw the wisdom of her words, and I kept them close in my own bo- 
som ; and often, when I ’d be just going to make a sharp answer to him I loved, 
for all that, above the world, I ’d think of the fairy’s word, and the evil would 
pass from my heart and lips without a sound — no one the worse for it, and I all 
the better. And sure Richard used to say I was like an angel to him. Poor 
fellow ! he was soon to be taught the differ, for the angels took him from me in 
earnest ! 

“ After a couple of years I married again — I ’ve no reason to fault the second 
I had ; though he was not gentle, like him who sighed out his soul in the blue 
waters: he was dark, and would not tell what offended him. Well, I’d have 
given the world to have had some one to whom I could make a clean breast ; 
but I had none ; and, somehow, I again sat in the same spot, at the same time — 
again slept — and again saw the same one of the good people. I did not think 
her honour was as gay as she had been, and I wondered in my heart if she, too, 
had taken a second husband ; it would not have been manners for me to spake 
first, but she was free as ever. 

“‘Well,’ she says, looking at me very solid-like, ‘you’ve tried another; but 
though you have not forgotten my advice, you do not follow it.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, my lady, plase yer majesty,’ says I, ‘ the tempers of the two do so dif- 
fer !’ and I thought with the words my heart would break : for the moment poor 
Richard’s humour was out, it was off ; but James would sulk and sulk, like a 
bramble under the shade of an oak : and the fairy read my thoughts as if they 
were an open ballad. ‘ This one is dark, my lady, and gets into the sulks, and 
is one that I can’t manage, good or bad ; not all as one as it was with my first 
husband, plase yer majesty ; for when we had a tiff, it was soon over — God help 
me, so it used to be; but this one sits in a corner, and never speaks a word, not 
even to the cat.’ 

“ ‘ Ah,’ said she, ‘ they are different ; but the rule holds good — gentle and sim- 
ple — hot and cold — old and young — you must take them asy, or you ’ll never be 
asy yourself. Let a passionate temper cool ; don’t blow upon it — a breath may 
ruffle a lake, and kindle a fire. Let a sulky temper alone, it is a standing pool; 


“ TAKE IT EASY . 1 


61 

the more it is stirred, the more it will offend.’ I try to talk her fine English, 
Aileen, but it bothers me,” continued old Alice. “ Well, the end of it was, that 
she finished as before, by telling me to take it asy ; which, after that, I did ; and 
I must say that James’s last breath was spent in blessing me. Well, dear, Miles 
Pendergrast was rich, and I was poor; he wanted a mother for five children, 
and a servant for himself; and he took me. This was the worse case of the 
three. There was a great deal of love — young — fresh — heart-sweet love to the 
first ; and more than is going, in general, to the second : but, oh, my grief! there 
was none to the third. Oh, but marriage to a woman without love ! what is it ? 
Where love is, it is even pleasant to bear a harsh word, or an unkind look — a 
satisfaction that you can show your love, by turning bitter to sweet. Service is 
no service then — his voice is yer music— his word yer law — his very shadow 
on the ground yer brightest sunshine !” 

“ Aunt,” said Aileen, “ you did not think that with the first, at the time, or you 
would not have wanted the good peopled advice.” 

“ True for ye, avourneen ; we never value the sunbeams so much as in the 
dark of the moonless night ; we never value a friend’s advice until he is beyond 
our reach ; we never prize the husband’s love, or the mother’s care, until the 
grave has closed over them ; and when we seek them there, the grass that we 
weep over is green, the mallow and the dock have covered the cross or the head- 
stone, and the red earthworms we have disturbed bring us no message.” 

“ I don’t want to hear any more, aunt,” said Aileen, pained by the picture her 
aunt had drawn ; “ now I ’ll own to the first of the quarrel, and the last word of 
it, if Mark will confess to the middle.” 

“Let a quarrel alone, when once it’s over,” interrupted her aunt. “ A quar- 
rel, darlint, is like buttermilk — when once it is out of the churn, the more you 
shake it, the more sour it grows.” 

“ And must I say nothing when he comes home ?” 

“ Oh, yes, say, ‘ Mark, my heart’s delight !’ ” 

“ Oh, aunt, that would never do !” 

“ Well, if ye ’re ashamed to say what you feel, a smile and a kiss will do as 
well. And a smile and a kiss will work wonders, darling, if the heart goes with 
them ; but if they are only given because they ’re dutiful gifts, ah ! they fall like 
a snow wreath upon the spring-flower, chilling and crushing, instead of warm- 
ing and cheering. Not but duty ’s a fine thing ; but it ’s dark and heavy to a 
married woman when there is no back of love to it.” 

“ Did the fairy queen give you the same advice the third time ?” said the bride, 
blushing like Aurora at Alice’s counsel ; “ for I suppose you saw her the third 
time ” 

“ I must say, achora, she wasn’t so civil to me the last time, as she was the 
first and second,” answered the old dame, bridling. “ She tould me I wasn’t as 
purty as I used to be — that was true enough, to be sure, only one never likes to 
hear it ; she tould me that, when the bloom of a woman’s cheek fades, the bloom 
of her heart ought to increase ; she talked a deal, that I did not quite understand, 


62 


« TAKE IT EASY.’ 


about men making laws and breaking them ; and how ever) one has a thorn of 
some kind or other to bear with : she tould me how hard it was to find three 
roses in a garden all of the same shape, colour, and scent, and how could I ex- 
pect three good husbands 1 She said that, as I had borne my crown, I must 
bear my cross ; she was hard enough upon me ; but the winding-up of her ad- 
vice to me, in all my troubles, — was to take it asy ; she said she had been mar- 
ried herself more than five hundred years.” 

“ The ould craythur ! and to talk of your not being so purty as you were !” 
said Aileen. 

“ Hush, avourneen ! Sure they have the use of the May-dew before it falls, 
and the colour of the lilies and roses before it ’s folded in the tender buds ; and 
can steal the notes out of the birds’ throats while they sleep.” 

“ And still,” exclaimed Aileen, half pouting, “ the best advice they can give 
to a married woman, under all her trouble, is — to take it asy !” 

“ It ’s a sensible saying, if properly thought of,” said old Alice, “ and will 
bring peace, if not love, at the last. If we can’t get rid of our troubles, it ’s 

wise to TAKE THEM ASY ” 





H D H QjY ® D8 0 E N. 

4 








9 









LILLY O’BRIEN. 


ILLY O’BRIEN — the sweet Lilly of Bannow! — I 
shall never forget the morning I first saw her. Her 
aunt — who does not know her aunt, Mrs. Cassidy ? — 
her aunt is positively the most delightful person in 
the whole parish. She is now a very old woman, 
but so “ knowing” that she settles all debateable points 
that arise among good and bad housewives, from Mrs. 
Connor of the Hill, down to “ Polly the Cadger,” as 
to the proper mode of making mead, potato-cakes, 
and stirabout ; and always decides who are the best 
spinners and knitters in the county ; nay, her opinion, 
given after long deliberation, established the superi- 
ority of the barrel, over the hand, churn. There is, 
however, one disputed matter in the neighbourhood, 
even to this day. Mrs. Cassidy (it is very extraor- 
inary, but who is without some weakness?) — Mrs. 
Cassidy will have it that a Quern — an obsolete hand-mill of stone, still patronised 
by “ the ancient Irish” — grinds wheat better than a mill, and produces finer flour ; 
she, therefore, abuses all mills, both of wind and water, and persists in grinding 
her own corn, as well as in making her own bread. By-the-bye, this very Quern 
was in great danger some time ago, when an antiquary, who had hunted hill and 
dale, seeking for Danish or Roman relics (I forget which, but it is of little con- 
sequence), pounced upon it, declared it was a stone bowl of great antiquity, and 
that Mrs. Cassidy’s maiden name, “ Maura O’Brien,” carved on it in Irish char- 
acters, proved it to have been used, either by Dane or Roman, in some religious 
ceremony, or Bacchanalian rite, I cannot take it on myself to say which : — but 
this I know, that the old gentleman was obstinate ; had been accustomed to give 
large sums for ugly things of every description, and thought that Mrs. Cassidy 
could be induced to yield up her favourite for three guineas. He never was more 
mistaken in his life ; nothing could have tempted Mrs. Cassidy to part with her 
dear Quern ; so he left the neighbourhood, almost heart-broken with disappoint- 
ment. 

I jespect the Quern myself, for it was the means of introducing me to the 
sweet Lilly. There, that little path, bordered with oxlips, primroses, and unob- 
trusive violets, — 

“Whose deep blue eyes, 

Kiss’d by the breath of heaven, seem colour’d by its skies ” — 

that path leads to Mrs. Cassidy’s dwelling. You cannot see the cottage, it is 

( 63 ) 



64 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


perfectly hidden — absolutely wooded in ; but it is a rare specimen of neatness. 
The farm-yard is stocked with ricks of corn, hay, and furze ; with a puddle-like 
pond for ducks and geese, and a sty for a little grunting animal, who thinks it 
a very unjust sentence that consigns a free-born Irish pig to such confinement. 
How beautiful is the hawthorn hedge ! — one sheet of snowy blossom — and such 
a row of bee-hives ! — while the white walls of the cottage are gemmed over 
with the delicate green, half-budded, leaves of the noble rose-tree, that mounts 
even to the chimney-top ; the bees will banquet rarely there, by-and-by. A par- 
lour in an Irish cabin ! — yes, in good truth, and a very pretty one : the floor 
strewed with the ocean’s own sparkling sand ; pictures of, at all events, half the 
head saints of the calendar, in black frames, and bright green, scarlet, and orange 
draperies ; a corner cupboard, displaying china and glass for use and show, the 
broken parts carefully turned to the wall ; the inside of the chimney lined with 
square tiles of blue earthenware, and over it an ivory crucifix, and a small white 
chalice full of holy water; six high-backed chairs, like those called “ education” 
of modern days ; a well-polished round oak table, and a looking-glass of antique 
form, complete the furniture. The window — forget the window ! — oh, that would 
be unpardonable ! It consists of six unbroken panes of glass, and outlooks on 
such a scene as I have seldom witnessed. Let us open the lattice — what a gush 
of pure, invigorating air ! Behold and gaze — ay, first on the flower-bed that ex- 
tends to where Mrs. Cassidy, with right good taste, has opened a view in the 
hawthorn hedge ; then on, down that sloping meadow, dotted with sheep, and 
echoing the plaintive bleat of the young and tender lambs ; on, on to the tower- 
ing cliff, which sends, leaping over its blackened sides, a sparkling, foaming tor- 
rent, rapid as lightning, and flashing like congregated diamonds, for the sun’s 
brightness is upon it, to the wide-spreading sea, which reposes in its grandeur, 
like a sheet of molten silver. Yonder torrent is strangely beautiful. The rock 
from which it gushes is dark and frowning, not even a plant springing from its 
sterile bed ; yet the pure water issues from it, full of light, life, and immortality, 
like the spirit from the Christian’s clay. Dear Mrs. Cassidy loves the sea ; her 
husband was owner and commander of a small trading vessel ; and her happiest 
days were spent in coasting with him along the Irish, English, and Welsh shores. 
He died in his own comfortable home, and was quietly buried in Bannow church, 
leaving his widow (who, but for her rich brogue, might, from her habits, have 
passed for an English woman) and one son, independent of the frowns or smiles 
of a capricious world. They had wherewithal to make them happy in their 
own sphere. 

Edward was, even at two years old, an embryo sailor ; a careless, open-heart- 
ed boy, who loved everything ardently, but nothing long ; except, indeed, his 
mother, who often regretted that his rambling disposition afforded her so little 
prospect of enjoyment in after life. She had a brother in the north of Ireland, 
who, dying, left an only child, our fair Lilly, lovely and desolate in a cold world ; 
but Mrs. Cassidy would not suffer any of her kith or kin to want when she had 
4 full and plinty;” and. accompanied by Edward, then a boy about fifteen, she 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


65 


journeyed to Tyrone, and returned to her cottage with the orphan girl. Soon 
after this circumstance (of which I was then ignorant), I paid the good lady a 
visit ; and when the country topics, of setting hens, feeding calves, and the dear- 
ness of provisions, were exhausted, I asked her if she still used her Quern ? 

“ Is it the Quern ? — and that I do, lady ; just look at this ! — (producing a very 
nice and snowy cake) — and, sure, bad manners to me for not axing ye to taste 
it, and my own gooseberry, before ! Look at this, there ’s not a mill in the coun- 
thry could turn out such bread as that ; and if ye like to see it at work, I ’ve 
just lifted it under the thorn yonder, to the sunny side of the ditch, and been 
instructing a poor colleen, that the world ’ud be after hitting hard, becase she ’d 
no friends, never a one, barring me, if I hadn’t brought her here to be like my 
own — and why not, sure, and she my brother’s child? Well, I’ve been tacheing 
her how to use the Quern, as in duty bound ; she ’s helpless as yet, but she shall 
soon know everything.” 

I followed Mrs. Cassidy into the garden, and, looking towards “ the sunny 
side of the hedge,” saw the child she had mentioned. She might then have 
been about thirteen ; her figure was slight and bending as a willow wand, and 
the deep black of her low frock finely contrasted with a skin transparently 
white ; her hair fell in thick curls over her neck and shoulders, and in the sun- 
beams looked like burnished gold ; it was not red — oh, no ! — but a pale, shining, 
and silky auburn. She was occupied in turning the Quern with one hand, and 
letting the grain drop from the other ; when she looked towards us, and shook 
back the curls from her face, I thought I had never seen so sweet a countenance ; 
her forehead was high and finely formed; but her soft blue eyes seemed better 
acquainted with tears than smiles ; there was something even more than polite 
in her address — it possessed much of rustic dignity ; and the tones of her voice 
were like those of a well-tuned instrument. 

The cottage now possessed for me a charm that was irresistible ; for, superior 
as the people of Bannow are to the general Irish community, nothing so pure as 
the Lilly had ever blossomed among us before. 

Even the rude peasantry seemed to look on her as something far above them ; 
and when, accompanied by her aunt and cousin, she passed up Carrick-hill on 
the Sabbath morning, to join in the prayers and receive the blessing of the priest, 
they all watched her footsteps, and declared that she appeared “ a’most like a 
born jantlewoman” — no small praise from the poor Irish, who venerate high 
birth to an extraordinary degree. Lilly’s time was not idly spent : Mrs. Cassidy 
resolved that she should know everything ; and as her childish days had been 
occupied solely in the business of education- — as she read correctly, and wrote 
intelligibly, it was time, the good lady thought, to teach her all manner of useful 
occupations ; consequently, spinning succeeded knitting, and then came mark- 
ing, shirt-making in all its divisions, namely, felling, stitching, button-holes, and 
sewing ; then milking and churning ; the best practical method of hatching and 
bringing up chickens, ducks, turkeys, geese, and even pea-fowl — two of the lat- 
ter were, unfortunately for poor Lilly, given to her aunt just as she arrived at 
9 


66 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


the cottage ; then the never-ending boiling of eggs, and chopping of nettle-tops 
for the young turkeys, that they might put forth their red heads without danger 
of croup or pip ; then the calf, an obstinate orphan, had to be dosed with beaten 
eggs and new milk, because he would not feed as he ought ; her cousin’s and 
aunt’s stockings regularly mended ; and, worst of all, a dirty, shoeless gipsy, the 
maid of all work to the establishment, was given to my sweet Lilly’s superin- 
tendence : — to Lilly, who had never known a mother’s care, had been a foolish 
father’s idol, and who had no more method or management than a baby of five 
months old ; however, her patience and gentleness worked wonders ; from be- 
fore sunrise she toiled and thought ; and, at the end of six months, astonished 
even Mrs. Cassidy. The Quern never ground such fine flour, the poultry were 
never so well fattened, the needlework was never so neatly finished, and the cot- 
tage never so happy, as since Lilly had been its inmate ! When the toils of the 
day were comparatively ended, and when the refreshing breezes of evening 
rambled among the sweet yet simple flowers that blossomed in the garden, Lilly 
loved to sit and read, and watch the blue waters ; and, as the night advanced, 
gaze on the meek moon floating in her own heavens. She had now resided 
nearly three years at the cottage, and was, one fine summer evening, sitting 
under the old thorn tree ; some grief must have been heavy at her heart, for 
tears, in the full moonlight, were trembling on her long eyelashes : — perhaps her 
aunt had been angry, or Edward had plagued her with too many of his never- 
ending errands. 

“Well, cousin Lilly!” exclaimed a joyous voice, ( *1 never saw such a queer 
girl as ye are ; ye ’ve been trotting, and mending, and bothering all day, and 
now, instead of a race, or a dance, or anything that way, there ye sit, with yer 
ould books, and yer blue eyes, that bate the wrnrld for beauty. Lilly, dear — 
tears ! — as I stand here, you ’ve been crjdng ! What ails ye, Lilly ?— what ails 
ye, I say? I take it very unkind of ye, Lilly,” — and he sat down and took her 
hand with much affection — “ I take it very unkind of ye to have any trouble 
unknown to me who loves ye (Lilly tried to withdraw her hand) as an own bro- 
ther. Has mother vexed ye ?” 

“ Oh, no !” 

“Well, then, cheer up! Come, come! James Connor has lent the barn to- 
night, and I met Kelly the piper going there, and there ’ll be a merry spree, and 
you must jig it with me, and Harry too, Lilly, dear ; and mother ’ll be glad 
ye go. Come, sure ye ’re a blessing to the ground ye walk on. Come, put on 
yer pumps and white stockings. The people say ye ’re proud, Lilly, but ye ’re 
not ; though ye might be, for there ’s not one in the parish like ye.” 

Lilly’s heart fluttered like a caged bird, as she did her cousin’s bidding, and 
accompanied him to the barn, where the piper was blowing his best for the boys 
and girls, who footed gaily to their favourite jigs. The Irish, old and young, 
rich and poor, all love dancing ; and, although their national dance is rude and 
ungraceful, there is something heart-cheering in witnessing the hilarity with 
which it inspires them. 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


67 

While Lilly and Edward were joining in the amusements of the evening, Mrs. 
Cassidy was sleeping or knitting at her kitchen fire, until disturbed by the rais- 
ing of the latch, and the “ God save all here !” of “ Peggy the Fisher." 

I wish I could bring Peggy “bodily” before you, for she is almost a nonde- 
script. Her linsey-woolsey gown, pinned up behind, fully displayed her short 
scarlet petticoat, sky-blue stockings, and thick brogues ; a green spotted kerchief 
tied over her cap — then a sun-burnt, smoke-dried, flatted straw hat — and the 
basket of fish, resting “ on a wisp o’ hay,” completed her head gear. When- 
ever I met her in my rambles, her clear, loud voice was always employed either 
in singing the “ Colleen Rue,” or repeating a prayer ; indeed, when she was 
tired of the one, she always returned to the other ; and, stopping short the mo- 
ment she saw me, she would commence with — 

“ Wisha thin it ’s my heart bates double joy to see you this very minit. Will 
ye turn yer two good-looking eyes on thim beautiful fish, lepping alive out o’ the 
basket, my jewil. Och, it ’s thimselves are fresh, and it ’s they ’ud be proud if 
ye ’d jist tell us what ye ’d like, and then w^e ’d let ye have it a dead bargain !” 

Peggy was certainly the queen of manoeuvring, and thought it “ no harm in 
life to make an honest pinny out o’ thim that could afford it ;” but she had strong 
affections, keen perceptions, and much fidelity ; her ostensible trade was selling 
fish, but there was more in her basket than met the eye — French silks, rich laces, 
or some drops of smuggled brandy for choice customers ; and when the farmers’ 
wives could not pay her in cash they paid her in kind — meal, feathers, chickens, 
and even sucking-pigs, which Peggy disposed of with perfect ease, so extensive 
were her connexions. Then, she was the general match-maker and match- 
breaker of the entire country. Those who could write confided to her their 
letters ; those who could not, made her the messenger of sweet or bitter words, 
as occasion required. And, to do Peggy justice, she has even refused money, 
ay, solid silver and gold, rather than prate of love affairs ; for she pitied (to use 
her own words) “ she pitied the young craturs in love ; well remimbering how 
her own saft heart was broke, many ’s the day ago.” Peggy lived anywhere — 
everywhere. There were few, married or single, who either had not needed, 
did not need, or might not need Peggy the Fisher’s assistance ; and the best bit 
and sup in the house were readily placed before her. 

“Och, Peggy, honey!” exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy, “is that y’erself! — sure ’t is 
[ ’m glad to see ye, agra ; and what ’ll ye take ? — a drop o’ tay, or a trifle o’ 
whiskey to keep the could out o’ yer stomach ; or may-be a bit to ate — there ’s 
lashings o’ white bread, and sweet milk, and the freshest eggs ever w^as laid.” 

“ Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Cassidy, ma’am ; sure it ’s y’erself has full and plinty 
for a poor lone woman like myself. I ’ll take the laste taste in life o’ whiskey — 
and may-be ye ’d take a drop o’ this, ma’am dear ; a little corjial I has, to keep 
off the water flash,” — continued she, screwing up the corner of her left eye, and 
placing her basket on the table. 

“ Have ye got anything striking handsome under thim dirty sea-v eeds and 
dawny shrimpeens, agra ?” inquired Mrs. Cassidy. 


68 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


“ May-be I have so, my darlint, though it ’s little a poor lone cratur like me 
can afford to do these hard times ; and the custom-officers, the thieving villians, 
in Waterford, Duncannon, and about there, they’s grown so ’cute that there’s 
no ho wid ’em now, at all, at all. There ’s a thing that ’s fit for Saint Patrick’s 
mother anyhow,” — displaying a green shawl with red roses on it — “ there ’s a 
born beauty for ye ! — and such nataral flowers, the likes of it not to be met wid 
in a month o’ Sundays — there ’s a beauty !” 

“ Sure I ’ve the world and all o’ shawls, Peggy, avourneen ! — and any how 
that ’s not to my fancy. What ’ud ye be axing for that sky-blue silk-handker- 
chief'?” 

“ Is it that ye ’re after ? It ’s the last I got o’ the kind, and who ’ud I give a 
bargain to as soon as y’erself, Mrs. Cassidy, ma’am ? — and ye shall have it for 
what it cost myself, and that ’s chape betwixt two sisters ; it ’s raal Frinch, the 
beauty ! — and it ’s wronging myself I am to give it for any sich money — dog 
chape, at six ihirteens.” 

“ Och, ye Tory,” exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy : “ six thirteens for that bit of a 
thing ! Is that the way ye want to come over a poor widow, ye thief o’ the 
world !” and she avoided looking at the tempting article by fixing her eyes on 
her knitting, and working with double speed. 

“ Well, mistress dear, I never thought ye ’d be so out of all rason,” and Peggy 
half folded up the handkerchief. Mrs. Cassidy knitted on, and never even 
glanced at it. 

“ It ’s for Miss Lilly, I ’m thinking, ye want it ; and sure there ’s nothing in life 
would look so very nate on her milk-white skin as a sky-blue handkerchief — and 
so, ma’am, ye won’t take it, and it killing chape V 9 

Mrs. Cassidy shook her head. 

“ Well, to be sure, for you I would do so, there ! (throwing it on the table) 

ye shall have it for five thirteens ; and that ’s all as one as ruination to myself.” 

“ I ’ll tell ye what, Peggy, a’coushla !” and Mrs. Cassidy took off her specta- 
cles, and looked at the kerchief attentively : “ I ’ll tell ye what ; it was four thir- 
teens ye meant ; and ye meant also to give Lilly two yards o’ that narrow blue 
riband for knots, that ye promised her long agone.” 

“ I own to the promise, as a body may say,” responded Peggy ; “ I own to 
the promise ; but as to the four thirteens for sich as that ! — woman alive — 
why ” 

“ Asy, asy, Peggy, honey, no harm in life !” interrupted Mrs. Cassidy, “ take 
the blue rag, it ’s no consarn o’ mine.” 

“ Blue rag, indeed ! — but” — after a pause — “ it ’s no rag, Mrs. Cassidy, ma’am, 
and there ’s no one knows that betther nor you that has all the wisdom in the 
whole counthry to y’erself ; but howsomever, take it ; sure I wouldn’t disagree 
with an ould residenther, for the vallee of a few brass fardins.” 

Mrs. Cassidy extracted, from the depths of an almost unfathomable pocket, a 
long stocking, slit like a purse in the centre seam, and tied with a portion of red 
iape at either end. From amid sundry crown, half-crown, “ tin-pinny,” and 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


69 

“ five-pinny” pieces, the exact sum was selected, paid, and the kerchief deposited 
in an ancient cupboard that extended half the length of the kitchen, and frowned, 
in all the dignity of Jamaica mahogany, on the chairs, settle, and deal table. 

“ The boy and girl are out, I ’m thinking,” commenced Peggy, as she lit her 
cutty pipe, and placed herself comfortably in the chimney corner, to enjoy the 
bit of gossip, or, as well-bred people call it, “ conversation,” which the ladies, 
ay, and the lords of the creation, so dearly love. 

“ They ’re stept down to Connor’s, to have a bit of a jig ; I ’m right glad to 
get Lilly e at, she ’s so quiet and gentle, and cares as little for a dance, and less, 
by a dale, than I do !” 

“ Och, ma’am, dear, that ’s wonderful, and she so young, and so perfect hand- 
some ! — and more thinks that same nor me.” 

“ Who thinks so, Peggy ?” inquired Mrs. Cassidy, anxiously. 

“ What ! — ye don’t know, may-be ? — Why thin I ’ll jist hould my tongue.” 

“ Ye’ll do no such thing, Peggy; sure the colleen is as the sight o’ my eye 
— as dear to my heart as my own child, which I hope she ’ll be one o’ these days, 
plase God ; and I tould ye as good as that before now — the time d’ ye mind, I 
bought her the green silk spencer. And why not ? A’n’t I rareing her up in all 
my own ways? — and isn’t she o’ my own blood? And Ned, the wild boy, that 
has full and plinty to keep him at home, if he ’d jist mind the land a bit, and give 
over his sailing talk, ’ud make a fit husband for her ; and thin I could make my 
sowl, and die asy in yon little room, betwixt my son and daughter. And I tell 
ye what, Peggy the Fisher, there ’s no use in any boy’s casting an eye at my 
Lilly, for Ned’s wife she shall be ; and I, Maura Cassidy, say it — that was never 
gainsaid in a thing she took in her head, by man or mortal.” 

“Very well, my dear, very well, why!” ejaculated Peggy, as, gathering her- 
self over the dying embers of the turf fire, with her elbows on her knees, she 
jogged slowly backward and forward, like the rocking motion of a cradle. They 
both remained silent for some time. But Mrs. Cassidy’s curiosity, that unweary- 
ing feeling of woman’s heart, neither slumbered nor slept ; and, after waiting in 
vain for Peggy to recommence the conversation, she could contain no longer. 

“ Who was talking about Lilly’s beauty, Peggy ?” 

“ Oh, my dear, sure everybody talks of it ; and why not ?” 

“ Ay, but who in particular ?” 

“ Och, agra ! — no one to say particular — that is, very particular.” 

“ I ’ll tell you what, my good woman,” said Mrs. Cassidy, rising from her seat, 
and fixing herself opposite the Fisher : “ if I find out that you ’ve been hearing 
or saying anything, or what is more, hiding anything from me, regarding my 
boy and girl, when I get you at the other side of the door (for I wouldn’t say an 
indacent thing in my own house), I ’ll jist civilly tell ye my mind, and ax ye to 
keep yer distance, and not to be meddling and making wid what doesn’t con- 
sarn ye.” 

Peggy knocked the ashes out of her pipe, crammed her middle finger into it 
to ascertain that all was safe; and, putting it into her pocket, curtsied to Mrs 


70 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


Cassidy, and spoke — “ As to good woman, that ’s what I was niver called afore ; 
and as to not hearing — would ye have me cork my ears whin I hard Ned and 
Harry Connor discoorsing about the girl, and I at the other side o’ the hedge ? 
Och, och ! — to think I should iver be so put upon ! But good night, good night 
to ye, Mistress Cassidy — cork my ears, agra ! And now,” she continued, as she 
hastily stepped over the threshold, “ I ’m at the other side the door, so say yer 
say.” 

Mrs. Cassidy’s curiosity was more excited than ever ; and her short-lived an- 
ger vanished as Peggy withdrew. 

“ Stop, Peggy ! — don’t be so hot and so hasty ; sure I spoke the word out o’ 
the face, and meant no harm ; come in, a’coushla ; it ’s but nataral I ’d be fiery 
about thim, and they my heart’s treasures.” 

In three minutes they were as good friends as ever, and Peggy disclosed the 
secret, which, notwithstanding her apparent unwillingness, she came to the cot- 
tage to tell. “ Ye mind the thorn hedge, where the knock slopes off; well, the 
day was hot, and I tired with the heat, and the basket, and one little thing or 
another ; and so down I sits on the shady side, thinking o’ nothin’ at all, only the 
crows — the craturs — flying to and fro, feeding the young rawpots that kicked 
up sich a bobbery in their nests wid the hunger ; and of what the priest said 
from the altar aginst smuggling, and if he was in right down arnest about it ; 
and then it crassed my mind, to be sure, how hard it was for a poor lone bodjr 
to make an honest bit o’ bread these hard times, and the priest himself agin it ; 
well, by-an’-by, who comes shtreelin’ up the hill at my back, but your Ned and 
young Harry Connor ; well, I was jist goin’ to spake, but by grate good luck 
I held my wisht ; well, the first word I hears was from Ned’s own mouth, 
and they were a good piece off at the time, too ; * She ’s always the same,’ says 
he, * always — sure I love her as my own sister.’ ‘ May-be more nor that,’ says 
Harry, quite solid. ‘ Harry,’ says Ned, solid like, too, ‘ don’t go to the fair wid 
the joke ; look, I ’d suffer this arm to be burnt to the stump to do Lilly any good ; 
heart frindship I have for her, and well she desarves it, but no heart love.’ Wid 
that, my jewil ! I thought Harry Connor ’ud have shook the hand bodily off Ned ; 
and thin I hard Ned say as how he ’d like a more dashinger girl for a wife nor 
his cousin ; and thin agin he talked about travelling into foreign parts ; and thin 
they comaraded how Ned ’ud bring them in company together as often as he 
could, and talked a dale o’ the dance, and Ned said he never see the colleen yet 
he ’d like to marry ; and Harry’s quite done over, for he swore he ’d lay down 
his life for one look o’ love from Lilly’s eyes ; and they kep’ on talkin’ an’ talkin’, 
and I kep’ creepin’ an’ creepin’ alongside the ditch, till the road turned and 
ye know it was my duty to find the rights of it, and you consarned.” 

Mrs. Cassidy waxed very wroth as Peggy’s narrative drew towards a close ; 
she had made up her mind that the cousins should be married, and thought she 
had managed the matter admirably. She was always praising Edward to Lilly?', 
and Lilly to Edward ; and it was quite impossible to think that two creatures so 
perfect (notwithstanding, it must be confessed, that her son often occasioned hei 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


71 


much anxiety), and, in her opinion, so well suited to each other, should be con- 
stantly in each other’s society without falling in love. Lilly’s anxiety to promote 
her cousin’s happiness, the perfect willingness with which she made all her in- 
dustry, all her amusements, yield to his caprice, convinced Mrs. Cassidy that 
she would not oppose her wishes : and then came another puzzling consideration 
— Edward had always appeared so very fond of Lilly ! The poor woman was 
fairly baffled ; how she wished that Harry Connor was little, old, and withered 
as a cluricawn ; but, no, he was tall, handsome, and more gentle, more polished 
than her son. Ned was gay and careless as ever ; his raven hair curled lightly 
over his finely formed head, and his hazel eyes, full of bright laughter, accorded 
well with the merry smile that played around his mouth. He was frank and 
generous, but he was also violent and capricious. Had Lilly not been so much 
with him, nay, perhaps, even had he not instinctively felt that his mother wished 
him to marry her, he would have fallen over head and ears in love, at once. He 
admired and respected Lilly, yet her quiet virtues were a silent reproach to his 
recklessness ; and at heart he longed to sail on the blue waters, and visit other 
lands. Next to his mother and cousin in his regards, came Harry Connor ; and 
Harry well deserved it. He was a most extraordinary Irishman ; cautious and 
prudent, even when a youth, and gentle and constant. The second son of an 
opulent grazier, he had been educated for the priesthood, and would, no doubt, 
have been useful in his ministry, for he had kindly feelings towards all his fellow- 
creatures, but that the death of his elder brother made it necessary for him to 
assist his father and family in the management of the grass farm. 

Poor Mrs. Cassidy ! — do you not pity her? Mothers are the same, I believe, 
all the world over ; and really it is a great shame that such an outcry should be 
raised against their innocent manceuvrings, though it must be confessed they are 
sometimes very annoying, and not unfrequently end in a manner little anticipated. 
Poor Mrs. Cassidy ! After a few moments’ cogitation, she was about to give 
vent to her anger, when the sweet voice of Lilly was heard, bidding “ good 
night, and thank ye kindly,” to — Harry Connor. 

“ Stay, stop, asy !” ejaculated Peggy, jumping up — “ if that ’s Misther Harry, 
may-be (calling after him) ye ’d jist give me, a poor cratur, a bit o’ yer company 
down the lane, that I don’t like to go alone : good night to ye kindly, and the 
blessing be about ye.” And basket and all went off at a short trot — Peggy’s 
peculiar gait. 

“ What ails ye, aunt dear ?” affectionately inquired Lilly ; for Mrs. Cassidy 
had not spoken. 

“ What ails you , girl alive — or dead — for ye ’re as white as a sheet — and 
where ’s Ned ?” 

“ Ned went a piece of the way home with Katey Turner,” replied Lilly, blush- 
ing, and tears gathering in her eyes at the same time. 

“ And you came a piece with Harry Connor ?” 

“ I could not help it, aunt dear,” said Lilly, earnestly. “ Sure, Ned ran off 
with Katey, and asked Harry to see me home.” 


72 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


“ He did, did he ? Why, then,”, cried the dame, rising m a great passion, 
“ I ’ll soon tache him betther manners, the reprobate !” 

“ Oh, aunt, dear aunt !” — and poor Lilly threw her arms around Mrs. Cassidy’s 
neck — “ Oh, don’t say a hard word to Ned — oh, may-be he couldn’t help it !’ 
and she burst into tears. “ But don’t, oh, don’t, for the sake o’ her that never 
angered ye, don’t say a hard word to Ned.” 

“Ye ’re a good girl, I ’ll say that for you any how, my own colleen,” said Mrs, 
Cassidy, kissing her fair forehead ; “ there, go to bed, my darlint ; ye look very 
pale, a’n’t ye well ?” 

“ Yes, aunt, thank ye ; but ye ’re not angry with Ned ?” 

“Well, well, go to bed, I’ll not scould him much, avourneen?” 

“ Not at all, at all, my own dear aunt !” 

“Well, there agra, you’ve begged him off; stay a minute, gramachree !” — 
Lilly was just mounting the ladder which led to her small chamber : she re- 
turned. “ I jist wanted my child to tell me why she calls me aunt, now, that 
used to call me mother when first she came to me. Lilly, darlint ! am 1 less a 
mother to ye now than I used to be ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, no ! — not that, dear a — mother,” — she stammered out ; and again 
her face and bosom were red — “ not that !” 

“ What then, Lilly, love ? — I hqpe I ’m yer frind, and ye ought to tell me.” 

“ Oh, nothin’ at all — only Katey and the girls laughed when I called you mo- 
ther, and said ” 

“ What did they say ?” 

“ Oh, all a folly ! — only they said — ’t was all a folly — they ’re very foolish, I ’m 
sure.” 

“Well, but what was it, a’coushla?” 

“ Why, that there could be only three sorts of mothers — born mothers, and 
step-mothers — and, and — oh, it ’s all a folly — (poor Lilly covered her face with 
her shawl) — mothers-in-law.” 

Mrs. Cassidy replied not, but kissed her cheek, and then Lilly flew up the lad- 
der — closed her door — after a pause, half opened it again, and, without showing 
her face, said, “ Remember, you promised not to be angry with Ned.” 

Lilly’s feelings were both new and painful ; she wept very bitterly, as she knelt 
at the side of her humble couch, and pressed her face to the coverlet ; was it 
because her aunt was angry with Edward ? No ; for her anger was like the 
shower in April, ardent, but passing soon. Was she vexed at Edward’s atten- 
tion to Katey ? She certainly thought he danced, laughed, and jested with her 
more than was necessary— but why unhappy at that ? — Katey was her friend, 
Edward her cousin. When Harry pressed her hand with so much tenderness, 
at the cottage door, why did she shake it from him, and feel as if insulted ? Lilly 
knew not her own heart, and wondered why she had spoken so sharply to poor 
Harry — Harry, who lent her books, and whose kindness was proverbial all over 
.he parish. She was bewildered; all she knew was, that she was more unhappy 
than ever she had been in her life. She sat long, trying to collect her senses 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 73 

and at last the rushlight sank into the socket of the white-ware candlestick ; it 
had been her cousin’s present. Then she again remembered that, although the 
moonbeams had long since begun to peep through her little window, Edward 
was not returned ; she opened the casement, which enclosed only two small 
panes of glass : the glorious prospect lay before her, and the watch-light gleamed 
brightly, over the dark blue waters, from the distant tower of Hook. The wea- 
ther had long been calm and clear, and the full-blown roses, that had never felt 
a rough blast, or a chilling shower, imparted their sweet fragrance to the mid- 
night air ; the path by which Edward would return crossed the meadow, and 
her heart bounded when his figure appeared hastily striding homewards. “ 1 
hope he did not see me,” thought she, as she closed the window : “ yet why ? — 
sure he ’s my cousin.” In a moment after the latch was lifted, and she distinctly 
heard her aunt say : 

“ A purty time o’ night, indeed, for you to march home, Master Edward Cas- 
sidy ! — and to lave me, a poor widow, and yer own mother, alone in this deso- 
late hut.” 

“ It ’s a comfortable hut, thin,” replied Edward, laughing ; “ and how are ye 
lone, whin there ’s Lilly, and Ruth — the dirty sowl — and Bran, to say nothin’ of 
ould puss, sitting so snug on the hearthstone ?” 

“ How do you know Lilly ’s here ? It ’s little ye care about her, or ye ’d be 
far from letting that long gomersal of a fellow, Harry Connor, see her home ; 
and you flirting off with that jilting hussey, Katey Turner.” 

“ Katey Turner ’s no jilt, or flirt either, but a tight, clane-skinned little girl ; 
and Harry ’s no gomersal at all ; but an honest fellow, that ’ll make a good hus- 
band for my handsome cousin, one o’ these days — and not long neither. What 
a wedding we ’ll have for sartin !” 

Poor Lilly’s heart sickened, and her head felt giddy, as she heard these words. 
She never intended listening, but her respiration was impeded in the deep aaxiety 
with which she waited for, yet dreaded, her aunt’s reply. Mrs. Cassidy was 
struggling for utterance ; she had seldom, perhaps never, been so enraged. Ned’s 
words, and perfect carelessness of manner, had almost maddened her. 

“ Look ye, Ned — Ned Cassidy !” said she, after a pause, during which Ed- 
ward saw the storm gathering fiercely — “ Look, I ’d sooner see Lilly stretched 
on that table ; ay, I ’d sooner a hundred times, and a thousand to the back of it, 
keen at her berrin’, than see her thrown away upon that ownshugh ! She ’s foi 
his betthers, though little they seem to think of it.” 

“Whew! whew! — is that what ye’re after, mother dear? Well, then, now 
I ’ll jist tell ye the rights of it, and then w r e’ll drop it for ever, Amin. As to Lilly 
a betther girl niver drew the breath o’ life ; and I regard and love her as a sis 
ter; but as to anything else, mother — I won’t marry; I’ll see the world. And 
any how, she ’s not the patthern o’ the wife I ’d like.” 

Mrs. Cassidy clenched her fist, and, holding it close to her son’s face, ejacu 
lated — “ Holy Mary ! — ye born villain !--ye disobadient spalpeen ! — ye limb o’ 
Satan ! — ye — ye — down upon yer bare knees, and ax my pardon for crassing 
10 


74 LILLY O’BRIEN. 

me ; or, by the powers ! I ’ll have father Mike himself here to-morrow mornin\ 
and marry ye out o’ hand.” 

“ I ax pardon for contradicting ye, mother ; but ye ’ll do no sich thing. Say 
two more words like that, and the dawn o’ day ’ll see me abord the good ship 
‘ Mary,’ that ,’s lying off Hook-head, where they ’d be main glad of a boy like 
me, as I heard to-night, to go a few voyages, and see the world.” 

“ And is this the thanks I get for all my love, ye scoundrel ; to fly in my face 
after that manner? Ye may trot off as soon as %e plase; but the priest shall 
know yer doings, my boy. Och ! ye ungrateful ! — down this minit, as I tould 
ye ; and, as God sees and hears me, ye shall be married to Lilly before to-mor- 
row's sun sets !” 

“ I see, mother, ye don’t mane to listen to rason ; but one word for all : by the 
blessing o’ God, I’ll not marry Lilly; and I don’t care that — (snapping his fin- 
gers) — for priest or minister.” 

“Take that, thin, for your comfort, and my heavy curse wid it!” And, en- 
raged by her son’s so wilfully destroying the hope that had latterly been the chief 
blessing of her life, in her fury she struck him a violent blow on the face. Poor 
Lilly rushed to her door ; but her powers were paralyzed. She could not undo 
the simple fastening, but clung to the window, that was close to it, for support. 
Edward spoke not ; and his mother’s arm sank by her side. Her rage was abat- 
ing, when Edward, bursting with smothered anger, which he pent up with a 
strong effort, deliberately took his hat, walked to the door, and out, without utter- 
ing a single word. “ Ned, Ned !” exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy ; but Ned returned 
not. Lilly, pale and wild in her appearance, in a few moments was at her aunt’s 
side. She had seen the desperate haste with which her cousin crossed the gar- 
den, trampling the flowers in his path ; and, alarmed lest his passion should lead 
him to some dreadful act, she rushed down the stairs. 

“ Oh ! to think,” said she, “ after yer promise, that ye should be so cruel to 
your own child, and all for one like me ! Oh, if I ’d ha’ thought it, sure the grass 
shouldn’t be wet under my feet before I ’d be far from this house ! Oh, call him 
back — call him back ! — and I ’ll fly the place for ever !” 

“ He ’ll come back fast enough I ’ll ingage,” said the widow, “ he ’s not sich 
a fool she opened the door, and saw in the moonlight his receding figure. 

“ He ’ll not, aunt. Oh, the blow ! — the blow ! — to think of yer striking so high 
a spirit, and that ‘Mary’ lying off Hook-head, and the mate of her, Katey’s 
uncle, putting his comether on Ned ! Sure I saw it, only I never thought it ’ud 
come to this, at the weary dance to-night.” 

“ Indeed !” responded the mother, now really alive to the danger of losing her 
son. “ Lilly, my darlint, you can save him ; fly ! — you can overtake him ; there, 
he hasn’t turned the knock yet ; tell him he shall do as he plases ; say, that I ’ll 
beg his pardon ; only as he valees his mother’s blessing, not to desart her in her 
ould age.” 

Lilly drew her cloak over her head, and ran, as fast as her strength permitted, 
after her wayward cousin, whose firm, quick step, as he paced towards the main 


LILLY O BRIEN. 


75 

road, rendered the maiden’s fleetness almost ineffectual : but at length she stood 
panting, almost fainting, at his side. It was then that a tide of conflicting feel- 
ings deprived her of utterance ; for the first time, she felt herself a rejected, de- 
spised creature, and that by the being a thousand times dearer to her heart than 
life itself. When he knew that she had overheard the dreadful conversation in 
the cottage, what must he think of her 1 Modesty, the sweet blossom of purity, 
the mild glory of woman’s life, had been outraged by her pursuing, even in such 
a cause, one who disdained her ; and, as these ideas shot like fire through her 
brain, she caught at a tree for support, and murmured, “ Holy Mary, direct thy 
child !” Edward spoke not, but looked on his cousin, with more of bitterness and 
scorn than of any other feeling. Twice she tried to speak, but vainly she un- 
closed her parched lips. “ Ned,” she at length articulated, “ you are going, I 
know, to lave us ; her, I mane, your mother ; and you know, Ned, she has no 
hope but you. Oh, Ned ! Ned ! — in her ould age do not fly her ; think o’ the 
time when she carried ye in sorrow and in bitter trouble — think ” 

“ Of the blow she gave me !” interrupted Edward, fiercely: “ by all the holy 
saints, if a man, ay, my own father, had dealt so with me, I ’d — I ’d have knocked 
him down, and ground him into the hard earth !” And he stamped so violently, 
that poor Lilly was terrified at so sudden a burst of passion. 

“ Ned, you know you provoked her, and ” 

“ And so you, Lilly,” he again interrupted, “ you, with all yer modesty and 
quietness, you collogued against me too : and that ’s the upshot of your coming 
among us ! Och ! och ! I thought ye had a more dacent spirit than to follow a 
boy to ax him to marry ye, and he yer cousin !” Lilly, roused by this unjust 
sarcasm, was collected in a moment ; drawing her slight yet dignified figure to 
its full height, she shook back the beautiful hair that had clustered over her 
mournful countenance, and stood firm and erect, with the beams of the chaste 
full moon gleaming upon her uncovered head. 

“Ye don’t know me, then; and I have lived under the same roof with ye 
three years and more ; but ye don’t know me, Edward Cassidy : if, by axing the 
powerful king of England, who sits on his throne, to make me his queen, it could 
be done — the poor orphan girl would scorn it ! Lilly O’Brien followed ye not for 
that. The grate God, that sees all hearts, knows that the words I spake are 
true. Never, till this woful night, did I think that yer mother wished me to be 
nearer to her than I am. Ye bitterly wronged me ; but that ’s not what I came 
to say. I tell ye that yer mother begs ye to come back ; and not to trust to the 
wild sea, when every comfort in life is for ye on land. She asks ye to forget; 
she even begs of ye, for Christ’s sake, to forgive the blow ; but stop, that ’s not 
all — the desolate orphan, who have, innocent-like, been the cause of all this 
misery — I beg of you, you that so insulted and wronged me — and I do to you 
what I never did to any yet, but my heavenly comforters — on my two knees, 
I beg ye to return. Edward Cassidy, ye shall see me no more. I have 
no other home, but I am young, and, for a poor girl, not ignorant, praise be 
to vour mother for it. I will quit the house for ever ; ay, before the sun rises. 


76 LILLY O’BRIEN. 

Do not let. me feel that I have driven the fatherless boy to labour, may-be to 
ruin.” 

She raised her clasped hands as she spoke, and her eyes, filled with the pure 
light of virtue, met the wild gaze of her cousin. 

“ Lilly,” he replied, raising her from the ground, and looking upon her more 
kindly, “ things must go on as they are. What comfort would my mother — 
God help her ! — have without you ? I have been a trouble and a plague to her 
— but you have been like an own tender child, and smoothened every step. I ’ll 
go to sea for a while — it ’ill be long afore I can forget what she did to-night; 
whatever divil tempted us both to sich anger. I ’ll be well to do in the same 
ship wid Katey’s uncle, and ye ’ll all be glad to see me, may-be, whin I come 
back. And Lilly, I ax yer pardon for saying the say I did of you ; it wasn’t 
from the heart, only the temper. I do know ye betther ; and my friend, Harry 
Connor, ’ill be a happy man yet, if ye ’ll only jist give him that young heart that ’s 
as innocent as the new-born babe. And now, God be wid ye! The ‘Mary’ 
may sail at day-brake for what I know to the contrary. God bless ye !” 

The heedless youth hastened on. 

“ Oh, Ned, Ned ! — and won’t ye say a word, or even make a sign, that I may 
tell yer mother all is pace ?” He stopped and waved his hat over his head, and 
the belting of many foliage trees, that enclosed Mr. Herriott’s estate, hid him 
from her sight. Tears came to her relief, and she felt happy that Edward did 
not suspect how dearly she loved him. She turned homeward with a sorrowing 
heart, and was proceeding slowly on, when Peggy the Fisher’s little black dog, 
Coal (we beg his pardon for not mentioning the very busy, ugly little gentleman 
before), ran out of a break in the adjoining hedge, and renewed his acquaint- 
ance with Lilly, by jumping and whining in that peculiar tone which shows a 
more than friendly recognition. Lilly was astonished ; but still more so when 
the flattened hat and round rosy face of Peggy appeared through the same 
opening. 

“ Why, then, Miss Lilly, dear, is it yer fetch ? — or where are ye moving along, 
like a fairy queen, in the green meadows by the moonlight ? Ah, gramachree !” 
she continued, forcing her way through the hedge, “ ye look like a spirit, sure 
enough ! My poor colleen ! Sorrow soon withers the likes o’ you.” 

Lilly felt sadly mortified, for she had little doubt that Peggy had overheard 
the conversation between her and Edward. And, although “the Fisher” kept 
love secrets with extraordinary fidelity, yet she certainly did not wish to trust 
her. 

“ So he ’s gone, the obstinate mule ! — but I ax yer pardon. I hard every word 
of it, over the place, just by accident, as a body may say ; for you see, mavour- 
neen, I was waiting for a particklar frind that promised to meet me about a lit- 
tle bit o’ business that can’t just be done by daylight, on account of the law. 
Och! it’s hard for a lone woman to get a bit o’ dacent bread; and the free 
rovers thimselves are getting so ’cute that ther’s no coming up to thim at all, at 
all ; but I ’m keeping ye here, and the poor woman ’ill be half mad till she hears 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


77 


tidings o’ Ned, the boy. I ’ll walk a step wid ye, and be back time enough yet. 
God help me ! I must travel to Hook and Ballyhack too, the morrow mornin'. 
Och ! but it ’s hard to ’arn an honest pinny in this wicked world.” And the lady 
smuggler crossed herself very devoutly. 

“ Hook ! are ye going to Hook to-morrow mornin’ V ’ inquired Lilly. 

“ Plase God, I ’ll do that same.” 

“ Oh, Peggy, thin, it would be an act o’ charity just to take Ned some o’ his 
bits o’ clothes and things ; if he will go, sure he ought to go dacent ; and I ’ll 
make up the bundle for him, and lave it under the black thorn, in an hour or 
two ; for I ’ll try and get her to bed — the Lord console her ! — and stale thim out 
like, for I know she ’ll be too angry to send him any comfort yet a bit, and the 
ship may sail before she comes to herself.” 

“ Why, thin, that ’s wise and good, the colleen ’gra — but sure you ’re the last 
that ought to grieve after the boy ; it ’ill be well for you, for sartin ; the ould 
woman has all in her own power — and sure it ’s to the one that bides wid her 
she ’ll lave it. Mind yer hits, and ” 

“What d’ ye mane by spakeing to me after that fashion?” said Lilly, darting 
a look of anger on her companion, which, if Peggy could have seen, she must 
have felt. “ How d’ ye think I could get such bitter black blood in my veins, as 
to plan such divil’s mischief as that ! Keep that sort of advice for thim that ’ll 
put up with it ; Lilly O’Brien scorns it.” 

“ Hullabullo ! there we go! Well, if ye’re so wrapt up in thim that doesn’t 
care a skreed for ye, why ye ’d betther just go to the fairy woman and get a 
charm, and bring him back, my purty Miss.” 

“ I ’ll tell ye what, Peggy — I don’t meddle or make with anybody, and nobody 
need meddle or make with me ; nobody can say agin my liking my cousin — and 
why not ? My aunt meant all kindly to both ; but the thorns are sown and 
grown ; and sure it ’s heart sorrow to think o’ his flitting from his own home ; 
but if he was willin’ this minute to take me afore the priest, d’ ye think I ’d have 
the hand and not the heart? Fairy woman, indeed! I’ve no belief in such 
nonsense.” 

“ Oh, to hear how she spakes o’ the good people, and the very spot we ’re in, 
may-be — Lord save us! — full o’ thim! Well, there’s the house — I’ll take the 
bundle safe, agra.” She stopped for a moment to watch Lilly enter the cottage, 
and then muttered : “ I can’t make her out ; she ’s either a born nataral, or some- 
thing much above the common.” 

Lilly O’Brien found it a painful duty to administer consolation, where she her- 
self so much needed it; but, after all, continual employment is the best balm to 
the sorrowing mind. Save that her cheek was somewhat paler, and her gentle 
smile less frequent, six months had made little change in my sweet Lilly’s ap- 
pearance. Not so was it, I am sorry to say, with Mrs. Cassidy, poor woman ! 
she felt her son’s desertion, as a mother only can feel ; but still more she grieved, 
when week after week passed, and the Bannow postman brought no letter from 
the wandering boy. Post evenings found her at the end of the lane that led to 


78 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


her cottage, anxiously watching John Williams’s approach. Still, no letter 
cheered her broken, restless spirit ; though she would never confess that she 
wandered forth on this errand, every Monday and Friday found her on the same 
spot ; and she was on those days more bustling and fidgety than usual. Some- 
times she would abuse the absent one in no gentle terms ; but Lilly never failed 
to remember some kind act of her cousin’s, and her low musical voice, in the 
soft tones of unaffected feeling, was ever ready to plead for him. At other pe- 
riods the widow would weep like a child over some little circumstance that 
brought Ned to her recollection. The flowers he planted blossomed — : or the 
bee-hives he had watched wanted thatching — or the table he made lost its leg. 
Lilly never mentioned him, except when her aunt led to it ; but her eyelid was 
often heavy with tears. 

Luckily for all parties, an event occurred that fully employed, for the time, 
my worthy old friend’s thoughts and actions. 

The windmill, that, from the landlord’s depending on the steward to get it 
repaired — from the steward’s depending on the mason to see to it — from the 
mason’s depending on the thatcher — the thatcher on the carpenter — the carpen- 
ter on somebody, or nobody, or anybody but himself (after the true Irish fashion) 
— the windmill, Mrs. Cassidy’s particular aversion — the windmill ! — that had 
suffered a paralysis for more than five years, although everybody said how use- 
ful it could be made — the windmill was repaired, furnished with new wings, and 
commenced operations within the short space of three weeks, to the astonish- 
ment of the natives, who (I must confess it, however unwillingly) are like all 
their countrymen and women, the most procrastinating race on the face of the 
earth. Mrs. Cassidy was annoyed beyond measure. The Quern was kept in 
constant motion, and Lilly was left at home in “ pace and quietness,” while her 
aunt sidled from house to house, exhibiting specimens of the flour ground in her 
own cottage, and contrasting it with what she termed “ the coorse. trash o’ bran- 
ny stuff, made up o’ what not, that comes out o’ that grinder a’ top o’ the hill.” 

Mrs. Cassidy was from home ; Lilly had finished her allotted portion of flour, 
and was quietly preparing the frugal supper, when our old acquaintance, Peggy 
the Fisher, and Peggy’s little dog, Coal, entered the cottage. Lilly had never 
forgotten the low cunning the Fisher had evinced on the evening, every trans- 
action of which she so perfectly — too perfectly — remembered; and her pale 
cheek flushed, and a shadow passed over her brow, as she returned the greeting 
of the village busybody. 

“ I ’m not for staying ; may-be I ’m not over welcome, Miss Lilly — but never 
mind, agra ! Whin people ’s angry wid people, and all for good advice, given 
from the heart, and wid good intintion, all through — why people must only put 
up wid it until other people see the rights o’ it. Well, my dear young cratur. 
it ’s little ye knows o’ the world yet ; ah ! it ’s a bad world for a dacent poor 
lone woman to get a bit o’ bread in. But sure you ’ll not be lone in it ; I seen a 
handsome boy not tin minutes agone, that ’ud give his best eye— (and, troth, it 


LILLY O BRIESL 


79 



’ud be hard to choose betwixt ’em) for one look o’ iove from ye, as I hard him 
say, many ’s the day ago, with my own two ears * 

“ I am sorry for it, Peggy, if what you say is true ; for no one in the wide 
world do I love, barring my own poor aunt.” 

“ Asy, child ! Sure I ’m not axing ye any questions — only, it ’s long, may-be, 
since ye hard from beyant seas ?” 

“ My aunt has never heard from Ned since he quitted,” replied Lilly. 

“ Well, may-be so best. No news is good news, they say.” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Now, what ’ud ye say to a poor body that ’ud tell ye something?” 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know,” said Lilly ; “ it would depend upon what that some- 
thing was.” 

“ Well, thin, here it is and Peggy drew a dirty, sailor-like letter from her 
bosom, and placed it in Lilly’s outstretched hand. “ There, my colleen ’gra ! — 
it ’s from Ned, sure enough ; and for yerself. One who brought it tould me, for 
I ’ve no laming ; how should a lone cratur like me get it ! but it ’s little ye ’ll like 
the news that ’s in it ; and I don’t know how the ould ’ooman ’ill like it, at all, at 
all.” Lilly stood unable to inquire, unable to open the letter she had so long 
wished for. Peggy, with her usual sagacity, saw the dilemma, and, settling the 
basket on her head, departed, with “ God be wid ye, mavourneen !” Lilly broke 
the wafer with trembling hand, and read as follows : — 


80 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


“ Dear Cousin, 

“ This comes hoping you and my mother is well, as I am at present — thanks be 
to God for the same ! — and likes the sea ; but the land, somehow, is a saferrer 
life : particular for a family man, as I am, having married out o’ love, a girl I ’m 
not ashamed of; an English born and bred, and well iddicated and mannered as 
need be for a boy like me. I ’d have written afore, but didn’t know how it ’ud 
end, as I was terrible in love. And now I ax my mother’s blessing. And, Lilly 
dear, it ’s you that can get that for me ; and I know ye ’ll do your best to make 
things comfortable. I ’m sorry mother and I parted in anger ; but it will be all 
for the best in regard of the wife. And I intind bringing her home to ye, and 
we ’ll all be happy thegither agin, plase God ; and I ’m detarmined my child 
sha’n’t be an Englishman, so I mean my mother to be grandmother soon, and ax 
her to love Lucy — she ’s handsomer than her name, and had a good penny o’ 
money too, only it ’s clane gone ; things are dreadful dear here; and I know 
you ’ll love her, for you were always kind. And I beg you to write by return 
of post, and send a trifle o’ money ; as, for the credit o’ my people, I ’d like to 
return home dacent. Lucy joins me in love and duty ; and trusting to yer gQod 
word, rests yer affictionate friend and cousin till death, E. Cassidy.” 

Lilly sat long with her eyes fixed on the letter ; she did not weep ; but her 
cheek was ashy pale, and her eyes were swollen. Poor girl ! — she had used her 
best efforts to root love from her heart, or to calm it into that friendship which 
she considered duty ; yet the shock she received, when the full truth was known, 
that Edward was actually married, and returning with his wife to Bannow, was 
almost too great for her to bear. She read the letter over and over again ; and 
at last sank on her knees, earnestly imploring God to direct and keep her in the 
right way. She arose, strengthened and refreshed by the pious exercise, and 
her pure and noble mind saw at once the course that was to be pursued. Then 
she reflected on her plan. Her aunt, she knew, would be terribly enraged at 
his marrying at all. But an Englishwoman — a Protestant, most likely — it was 
dreadful ! 

“ Lilly, my darlint, what are ye in such a study about?” said the old woman, 
as she entered. “ I’ve good news for ye — that vagabone mill — but save us ! — 
why ye ’re like one struck ! — has anything turned contrary ? It ’s not post-night, 
nor — what ails ye, child ? Can’t ye spake at onct ?” 

“ Sit down, aunt, dear; there ’s a letter from Ned, and he is alive and well.” 

“ Thank God for all his mercies to me and mine ! Well, child ?” 

“ And he ’s tired o’ the sea, and coming home ; and sure ye ’ll resave him 
kindly, aunt?” 

“ The cratur ! and sure I will; why nqt? Sure it was only a boy’s wildness 
after all Resave him ! after not setting my two eyes upon him for a whole tin 
months ! Sure I will — and he ’ll like home all the betther ! Och, I ’m so happy !” 
The poor woman threw her arms around Lilly’s neck, and kissed her affection- 
ately. “ But what makes ye look so grave, my own colleen, that ’ll be my raal — ’ 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


81 

“ Hush ! whist ! for God’s sake, my dear, dear, dear aunt I” And Lilly fell on 
ner knees : “ Aunt dear, the night you and Ned had the bitter battle, ye promised 
me ye would not vex him ; yet ye did.” 

“ Well, agra?” 

“ Well, ye say the same thing now ; and yet, may-be, ye ’d do the same thing 
agin for all that !” 

" Well, Lilly, darlint, there’s no dread in life of it now, I am so continted; 
but where ’s the letter ? read me the letter — I knew he ’d come back ; I ” 

“ Aunt, I humbly ax yer pardon ; have I, since Ned left ye, ever angered 
ye 1” 

“ Never, my colleen.” 

“ Then grant me this one prayer — may-be the last I ’ll ever ax ye, aunt ! — 
swear, by this blessed book, never to reproach Ned with anything that is gone 
and past ; but to take him to your own fond heart, and trate him as a son for 
ever.” 

“ It ’s a quare humour, my darlint, but I can’t refuse ye anything to-night, I ’m 
so happy ; and the letther to you and all, as fitting !” She took the prayer-book 
in her hand — “ To swear to forget all that ’s past is it, mavourneen % — and to trate 
him- ” 

“ Say, him and his — him and his,” interrupted Lilly, breathlessly. 

“ That I will,” replied Mrs. Cassidy, “ and with all the veins of my heart ; to 
forget all that’s past, and trate him and his with love and kindness to the end of 
my days.” 

She kissed the cross on the page of the prayer-book, after the manner of her 
religion, and was going to do the same to Lilly’s fair forehead — when she ejacu- 
lated, “ Thank God !” and fainted in her aunt’s arms. She remained long insen- 
sible, and when the kind woman’s efforts succeeded in restoring her, the first 
words the poor girl heard were — “ that ’s my darlint child ! — rouse up ; there, 
lane your head on my shoulder ; no wonder, agra ! he ’d think o’ those curls, 
and that gentle face, and that sweet voice that falls upon the ear widout ever 
disturbing it ! Oh, sure ye ’ll be my raal child ! I see it all : fitting to be suie 
that the letther should be to you. Sure he could not but remimber my darlint 
Lilly ! Och, but I ’m the happiest woman this minit in the big world, let t’other 
be who she will !” 

A loud and heavy groan, as if the last effort of a bursting heart, which the 
maiden could not suppress, stayed the old woman’s speech, and fixed her atten- 
tion again on Lilly’s ghastly features — “ Tell me directly, this minit, my bro- 
ther’s own child — tell me, is there anything in that letther you ’ve not tould me, 
as you wish to be happy ? Is Ned coming home ?” Lilly moved her head in 
assent. “ Is he well and happy ?” 

“ Yes, aunt, yes.” 

“ Then, in holy Peter’s name, my lanna, what is it ails ye ? Sure I see long 
enough ago that ye loved him in yer heart’s core ; and now — praise be to God 

11 


82 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


— whin ye ’ll be married, and my heart at pace, ye ’re taking on as if the boy 
was kilt intirely ! Sure, whin ye ’re married ” 

“ Aunt, for the blessed Virgin’s sake, name that last no more, for it can’t be !” 

“ Don’t dare to tell me that, unless ye mane to start the life out o’ me at onct J 
Lilly, Lilly ! sure, girl, ye ’ve not been listening to Harry, and promised un- 
knowns’t to me, out o’ maidenly anger with Ned ? If ye marry Harry Connor, 
Lilly, ye ’ll sup sorrow, for it ’s a folly to talk, child — yer heart ’s not in it.” 

“ I ’ll never marry either Ned or Harry, aunt, so don’t mintion it.” 

“ The girl ’s gone mad, clane mad,” said Mrs. Cassidy, angrily. “ Why, what ’s 
to put betwixt you and Ned now V’ 

“ His wife !” replied Lilly, solemnly, and for the first time pronouncing the 
word which banished every lingering hope from her heart ; “ his lawful wife ; 
who,” she added, " though born in a far counthry, will make ye a good daugh- 
ter, and a loving, when I lave ye.” 

It would be impossible to describe the terrific rage of Mrs. Cassidy, when 
informed of all the particulars ; even her noble-minded niece suffered from it ; 
for when, forgetful of her oath, she declared Ned and his heretic wife should 
never find refuge in her house, “ Remember,” Lilly would say, and, as she spoke, 
the large tears would shower down her cheeks — “ you swore on the blessed book 
to forget the past, and trate him and his with kindness to the end of yer days.” 
Then Mrs. Cassidy reproached Lilly with “ colloguing” against her ; with “join- 
ing the whole world to make her desolate with “ brakeing her ould heart,” 
and “ splitting it into smithereens.” Then she raved about Ned, and his strange 
wife, and concluded with — “ I ’ll bet my life she ’s no betther nor she should be.” 

“ Oh, aunt, how can ye say sich a word ! D’ ye think Ned ’ud be the boy to 
bring black shame to his mother’s hearth-stone ? Oh, no ! Protestant she is — 
and English — and all that — but not bad ; don’t think that, any how.” 

“ Well, any how, Lilly, if a boy sarved me as you ’ve been sarved, I ’d skiver 
his heart to his backbone. I wish ye had a betther spirit in ye.” 

Lilly replied not, but heartily rejoiced when the good lady’s anger and repin- 
ings were hushed in a sound sleep. She entered her own room, and counted 
over her savings, for Mrs. Cassidy had ever given more than supplied her wants. 
She had hoarded, not from selfishness, but from a feeling of generosity, that she 
might have the means of assisting some of her poorer neighbours ; and this she 
had often done. With her hands, as well as with her money, had she bestowed 
cleanliness and comfort to many a neighbour’s cottage. Her little store only 
amounted to three one-pound notes, and a few shillings ; the former she carefully 
wrapt up, and wrote as follows to her cousin : — 

“ Dear Ned, 

“ I could not ask yer mother to send you much money now, and I think she ’d 
just as soon, when ye come, that ye didn’t mention at all having resaved it, be- 
case it ’s so little, on account o’ Lady-day being nigh at hand, and the rent to 
make up, and money not plenty ; and we ’ll be glad to get ye back, and the young 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


83 

woman that ’s my cousin now, too. My aunt ’s angry yet, but she ’ll soon come 
about. Let me know aforehand, the day we may expect ye ; and, with prayers 
that heaven may rain down blessings on you and yours, I rest, 

“Your sincere 

“ Well-wisher and cousin, 

“ Lilly O’Brien. 

“ Inside, three pounds.” 

The early grey of morning saw Lilly pattering along the sea-shore in search 
of Peggy the Fisher. This busy woman often lodged at a little cottage near 
the cliffs, that belonged to one Daniel McCleary, a man of doubtful character, 
as regarded the revenue. Lilly thought it not unlikely that Peggy would be 
there : so towards it she directed her steps. The sun had not even tinged the 
eastern clouds with his earliest rays, and the ocean rolled in heavy masses of 
leaden-coloured billows towards the shore, save where, here and there, amid the 
mistiness of morning, a fantastic rock, rooted in the “ vasty deep,” raised its dark 
head, prouder even than the proud waves that foamed for a moment angrily at 
its base, and then passed on. The cabin she sought was so miserable, that its 
mud walls and blackened thatch, overgrown with lichens and house-leek, were 
hardly distinguishable from the long fern and bulrush that grew round it ; it rest- 
ed against (indeed, one of its sides was part of ) a huge mound of mingled rock 
and yellow clay ; and at spring-tides the sea advanced so very near, that the 
neighbours wondered McCleary remained there. There were two paths ap- 
proaching this hovel ; one from the country across the marshy moor that stretch- 
ed in front ; the other from the cliffs which partly overshadowed it. Lilly pur- 
sued the latter, but was a good deal surprised at observing a very dark cloud 
of smoke issuing from an aperture in the roof which constituted a chimney. 
She went on, looking at the smoke, and endeavouring to guess its cause ; when, 
suddenly, she felt her footing give way, and almost at the same moment discov- 
ered that she had fallen into an excavation, not deep, but extensive. Before she 
had time to look around her, the exclamation of “ Tunder and turf! — what divil 
brought ye here ?” from the lips of Peggy herself, astonished Lilly beyond con- 
ception. Ere she could reply, three or four wild-looking men, not one of whom 
she recognised, gathered round her: the red, flickering light given by a peat and 
furze fire, and a few miserable candles, stuck without any apparent fastening 
against the clayey walls ; the heaps of grain piled to the very roof; the black- 
ened iron pots of all sizes ; dirty tin machines, such as she had never before 
seen ; and, above all, the smell of turf and whiskey, convinced poor Lilty that 
she had tumbled into an illicit distillery, the existence of which, although within 
half-a-mile of her own home, she had never suspected. 

“ Peg, ye ould cat, ye ’ve sould the pass on us !” exclaimed one of the men, 
whose bare sinewy arms and glaring eye told both of strength and violence. 

“ Look out, Jack, for God’s sake !” whispered another ; “ who knows but the 
young one has a troop o’ red-coats at her heels !” 


84 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


“ Divil drive ’em !” said a ferocious-looking fellow, with a pitchfork ; “ we ’re 
done up fairly now, and there ’s nothin’ for it but to skiver the both, and thin jist 
trate ’em to a could bath this fine mornin’.” 

“What’s the row?” inquired Daniel McCleary himself, coming forward. 

Hey, powers above ! ye ould traitor (turning to Peggy, who stood with her 
arms folded, and managed to hold her tongue for a time), is it you that brought 
Miss Lilly here ? — we ’re ruinated. Och ! Peggy, Peggy, to think ye ’d turn in- 
former 1” 

“ Me — is it me ? — ye lying vagabone ! — Me ? — ye desarve to be briled alive ; 
to be scalded to death in yer own potteen ’ud be too dacent a death for ye. Me, 
an informer ! — the back o’ my hand to ye, Dan McCleary, for ever, Amin. As 
for you, Mick Doole,” and, as she spoke, she placed her arms a-kimbo, and ad- 
vanced to the knight of the pitchfork ; “ you were niver good — egg nor bird — 
nor niver will be, plase God. And as to skivering, Mick Doole, may-be ye ’ll 
be skivered or worse, as nate as a Michaelmas goose, yerself, afore long, only I 
scorn to talk o’ sich things. Paddy Leary ! oh, it ’s you that ’s the brave man ; 
look out for the red-coats ; ah ! ah ! ah ! fait, an’ it ’ud be good fun to see that 
innocent young cratur marching at the head of a rigiment, after yer bits o’ stills, 
that, it ’s my thought, she knew nothin’ about till this blissid minit ! Sure it ’s 
myself was struck to see her tumbling upon a hape o’ barley, through the black 
roof, like a snowball. Spake out, my lannan ! Sure ye niver did that ye ’d be 
ashamed to tell, and that ’s what none here can say but yerself.” 

“ Ay,” added the first speaker, “ we ’ll listen to rason.” 

“For the first time in yer life, thin,” muttered Peggy. 

“ You gave me a letter last night,” and Lilly turned to the Fisher as she 
spoke. 

“ True for ye, it was he,” pointing to McCleary, “ brought it from Wather- 
ford.” 

“ It required a quick answer. I couldn’t get John Williams to take it, by ra- 
son he doesn’t go till to-morrow ; and I thought that you, Peggy, ’ud be on the 
trot somewhere near a post, so I wrote it last night, and thinking ye ’d put up 
at Dan Cleary’s, ’cause ye often do, I came early to try, for fear I ’d miss of ye, 
and ill-luck sent me the cliff path, and all of a sudden I fell into this wild place ; 
out o’ which the Lord will, I hope, deliver the poor orphan in safety.” 

Lilly’s tall, slight figure, and flowing hair, contrasted with the stout form of 
the Fisher, who stood a little in front; the rosary and a cross hanging from the 
arm which retained its a-kimbo position ; while the scarlet kerchief that confined 
her grizzled locks fell, like a cowl, from the back of her head, and fully exposed 
her large bronzed features, which showed in strong relief, as the light from the 
crackling fire flashed occasionally on them. Mick Doole, large and bony enough 
for one of the ancient inhabitants of the Giant’s Causeway, leaning on his pitch- 
fork, and looking as if the roof rested on his huge black head, towering over 
both Paddy Leary and Daniel, who standing at either side of the colossus, formed 
another group; while some three or four beings, indescribable as to shape and 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 85 

leatures, because they were covered with dirt, and encompassed in an atmo- 
sphere of smoke and steam, filled up the back-ground. 

“ If ye came wid a letther, where is it V ’ inquired one of the party. 

Lilly drew it from her bosom, and presented it to the querist. He turned it 
over and over, and then, observing quietly— “ The smoke blinds me so, I can’t 
read,” — handed it to Daniel McCleary. 

“ Well, that’s good enough, too,” said Peggy, “I niver hard tell yet of man 
or woman who could read widout knowing B from a bull’s fut.” 

“ It ’s right enough after all,” observed Daniel, “ for I know this is for the 
boy I brought the letther from ; not from him straight, only from one that knows 
him : there ’s something inside it ?” 

The idea that McCleary might extract the money crossed Lilly’s mind, but 
only for a moment, and she firmly replied, “ Yes, three pounds.” 

“ And I ’m the one that ’ll put it safe into Taghmon, my jewel, afore twelve 
this blissid day,” exclaimed Peggy, taking possession of the letter. 

“ Well, ye didn’t go to come here as a spy, Miss Lilly, and I ax yer pardon 
for suspicting ye ; but upon my troth it ’s dangerous, now ye know our sacret, 
to let ye go ; who ’ll go bail for ye 

“ I will,” said Peggy. 

“ Your bail won’t do, ye cross divil,” replied Paddy Leary. 

“ Mine will, then,” said a stout, middle-sized man, coming from amid the dis- 
tant group ; “ I ’ve been watching ye all this tin minutes, ye cowardly set — and 
it ’s no joke to be frightening the Bannow Lilly after that fashion, ye bag o’ wea- 
sels ! My colleen, never mind ; ay, when ‘ rattling Jimmy’ goes bail, who grum- 
bles ?” Certainly they all appeared quite satisfied. “ Sure,” he continued, “ only 
you ’ve no gumtion, ye ’d know that the kind heart is niver mane ; why, look at 
her, d’ ye think sich as she ’ud condescind to inform on yer potteen ? Ah ! ye 
don’t know her as I do.” 

“ I never saw ye before,” exclaimed Lilly. 

“ What, not the lame bocher, that had lost the use of a leg, and was blind of 
an eye, all from lightning on the salt say I” and he imitated the voice and halt of 
a beggar to perfection : “ ’t was a could night, but ye made me very comfortable, 
Miss Lilly ; and don’t ye remimber the madman that, frightened ye down the 
park, where ye were spreading the clothes to dry, last summer ? I was sorry 
to frighten ye, dear ; but fait, I couldn’t help it, for w.e were wanting to get a 
little something, that same little sthill, past the park, and couldn’t, for you; so I 
wint mad, and frightened ye ; yet — God bless ye ! — ye thought I looked hungry, 
and so ye brought out sich a dale o’ food, and laid it a’side the hedge ; but come 
along, the white rose can’t blow ’mong the coorse weeds.” 

“ Jim — Jim, ax her to promise on the book,” said Paddy. 

“ Ax — not I : sure the honour ’s in her heart’s blood.” And so saying, “ rat- 
tling Jimmy,” the smuggler and the peep-o’-day-boy, lifted Lilly kindly and re- 
spectfully out of Daniel McCleary’s black den. 

“ And now,” said Peggy, “ I ’ll finish my prayers.” 


86 


LILLY O’BRIEN 


A fortnight had nearly elapsed, and no letter arrived from Edward. Lilly 
most truly wished to leave the cottage, and urged every reason she could think 
of to be permitted so to do. “ Miss Herriott -was going for the winter to Dub 
lin, and wanted a bettermost lady’s maid, and a little time there would do her 
the world and all o’ good or, “ she had a bad cough, and it might go away 
if she went more up the country but the entreaties and tears of her aunt, to 
whose very existence she seemed as necessary as the air she breathed, silenced 
her request ; and she resolved to meet her relatives, however painful the meet- 
ing might be. “ My aunt will get used to Lucy after a bit,” thought she, “ then 
I can go ; and, any way, he doesn’t know I ever loved him, and sure it ’s no sin, 
in the sight o’ God, to love him as I have loved.” And Lilly was right ; there 
was no impurity in her affection. It was the feeling that seeks the good of its 
object, without any reference to self. She did not regret that Edward was happy 
with another ; nor had she, towards his wife, one jealous or unkind thought. 
“ And sure I shall rejoice to see him happy.” This was her last idea, as she 
rested her head on her humble pillow ; and yet the morning found it wet with 
tears ; and then she knelt, and prayed to God to bless her aunt, and Edward, and 
his wife, and to direct her in all her paths. 

“ There ’s one wants to spake a word to ye, Miss Lilly, dear, jist down yon- 
der,” said Peggy the Fisher, as Lilly entered the garden, after breakfast, one 
morning. 

“ Who is it, Peggy ?” 

“ Well, thin, it ’s jist Harry Connor, he ’s had a letther from Ned, and he wants 
to see ye on the strength of it.” Peggy passed on her way, and Lilly proceeded 
to the spot the Fisher had pointed out. Harry Connor was there. 

“ I got word from your cousin, Lilly,” said Harry, “ that him and his wife 
are at Ballyhack, and will be here to-morrow ; and they ’d have come before, 
but Lucy (I think he calls her) has been very ill from the sea-sickness ; and he 
begged me to tell ye so. Dear Lilly, I was glad of the opportunity ; for there ’s 
no getting a sight o’ ye ; you ’re always at home, and even on Sundays yer aunt 
goes on the car to chapel, so one can’t spake to ye. Oh, Lilly ! Lilly ! you were 
not always so distant — don’t you remember when I used to sit of an evening in 
that garden, between you and Edward, reading, and you used to call me your 
master, and say the time passed so happily ?” Tears gathered in Lilly’s eyes, 
as she turned away her face ; for she, too, remembered those evenings. “ Lilly,” 
continued the young man, “ have you heard anything against me? Your aunt 
always showed me the could shoulder ; I don’t blame her for that in past times ; 
but now she would not, if you wished. Oh, do not say you cannot love me, 
Lilly ! You have always shunned me when I wanted to spake about it ; but tell 
me now, Lilly O’Brien! I will wait; I will do anything you wish — anything — 
only say, Lilly, that you do not hate me.” 

“ No, Harry, I do not, indeed and she met his eye with steady firmness. 

“ Only one word more, and then,” he continued, holding her struggling hand, 
you may go. I will wait any time you please, only say that it shan’t be in 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 8? 

vain — that you will be my wife, and make one whose heart almost bursts at the 
thought of losing you — happy 1” 

“Harry, I cannot desave ye,”„she replied, “nor would not, if I could. I 
know I ’ve shunned ye ; because I hoped that you would see why — to save us 
both all this heart-pain. I have always had rason to respect you — and I do ; 
but love ye I never can ; and I ’ll never marry the man I cannot love.” 

“ Only one word,” said Harry, earnestly — “ sure you’ll hear me — )hm say 
you ’ve a regard for me. Lilly, you go nowhere ; you see no one. I do not 
speak of my being well to do in the world. But if ye were to let me near ye, 
to be with ye as I once was, in bygone days, the love might come. Oh, let me 
only try !” 

“No, Harry, no, it would be useless; my heart here tells me so. You will 
find many fitter for ye, who can love ye as ye deserve. May the Almighty bless 
and watch over ye, Harry ! And farewell.” The young man still grasped her 
hand ; and, as he gazed on her beautiful face, he felt that, if it were turned from 
him for ever, his sun of happiness was indeed set. 

“ Lilly, before ye go, hear my last resolve. If ye really cast me off, I, who 
love ye more than life — I, who, to see even the glimmer of the candle carried 
by this hand, have watched in rain and tempest under yon old tree — I will leave 
my father’s home ; and, for your sake, Lilly, I will take priest’s vows, and for- 
sake the world. Think well, Lilly O’Brien, if, from mere whim or maiden mo- 
desty, you would drive me to that.” 

“ Harry, God forbid that you should ever do so ! Ye would not be fit to sarve 
on the altar, if for anything like that ye went there. No, Harry, my heart must 
go with my hand. They ’re all I have to give, but they must go together : even 
you would despise, ay, hate that hand, if ye found, for lucre, it gave itself, when 
the betther part was wanting.” 

“ Lilly, may-be ye love some one else ? Oh ! may-be I ’m proud ; but surely 
there ’s not a boy all round the country could w 7 in your heart.” 

“ I do not love any one for marriage. So, onct more, God bless ye, Harry ! 
— may ye be happy — happier,” she muttered to herself, “ happier than I shall 
ever be !” 

Harry stood, with his eyes fixed on the spot where Lilly had disappeared. 
His senses were bewildered ; and it was not until a smart slap on the shoulder, 
and the voice of the everlasting Peggy, w 7 ho appeared (one would almost be- 
lieve, like Sir Boyle Roche’s bird, in two places at the same time) at his elbow, 
with her broad platter face, shaded by the fish basket — that he became fully sen- 
sible of the reality of his interview. 

“ Sure I tould ye ye ’d get no good of the colleen ; and if ye ’d ha’ mintioned 
the matther to me afore, I ’d ha’ tould ye the same thing, and may-be the rason 
too.” 

« I know,” said Harry, musingly, “ she does not love any one else.” 

“ Och, ye do, do ye ? — humph, agra !” 


88 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


“What do you mean, woman? Sure she told me she did not; and her lips 
never lied, nor never will.” 

“ Asy ! — the string o’ my bades broke, and I was forced to stop to mend it jist 
behind that big bush o’ furze. A poor cratur like me can’t afford to be buying 
bades every day. So, my dear — all accident (for I scorn a listener), I hard 
what she said — ‘ she loved no one for marriage.' True for her ; they talk a grate 
dale of her sinse; but it’s poor sinse to go look for the snow that fell last win- 
ter. I ’ll tell ye what, as a dead sacret : — she loved the ground that her cousin 
walked on, more than all the gould that ever was in, or ever came out o’ Indy. 
And she loves him still ; ay, ye needn’t look so strange ; she loves him, but no- 
thin’ improper — I know that girl’s heart as well as if I was inside of her — ’t is 
of the sort that doesn’t stain, or spot ; and now you ’ll see, her delight ’ll be to 
tache his wife all the ould mistress’s quare ways. And thin, whin she ’ll have 
made pace entirely among ’em, she ’ll stale off, like the mist up the mountain ; 
and work (and well she knows how) for his sake that doesn’t know she loves 
him. It’s mighty fine to be so romantical all for pure love. God help us, poor 
women, we ’re all tinder ! It was the way wid me, whin my bachelor died — 
rest his sowl ! — and that ’s the rason f ’m a poor lone body now. Sure I sould 
the pig my mother left me, to pay the clargy, to get his sowl out o’ purgatory ; 
and wasn’t it well for him to have it to depind on ?” 

Harry, heedless of Peggy’s pathetic application of the apron to her eyes, turn- 
ed towards his own home, “ revolving sweet and bitter thoughts.” There is a 
delight imparted to every unsophisticated heart, by the contemplation of a noble 
or a virtuous action, that nothing else can give ; and Harry’s generous mind at 
once acknowledged Lilly’s virtues : loving at first without knowing it ; feeling 
it unrequited ; and yet resolved to benefit its object to the sacrifice of every per- 
sonal convenience and prospect in life. 

The next day Edward and his bride arrived at the cottage. Mrs. Cassidy, in 
compliance with her oath, received them kindly. The mother’s heart yearned 
towards her son ; but poor Lucy saw the old woman entertained a strong pre- 
judice against her. 

The “ kindly welcome,” that murmured from Lilly’s lips, sounded sweetly on 
the young stranger’s ears ; and, as fatigue compelled her to go to bed almost 
immediately, Lilly’s gentle attentions were very delightful. The kind girl had 
displayed much taste and care in arranging their small sleeping room. Every 
article she could spare from her own chamber was added to its furniture. And 
when Lucy saw everything so clean and comfortable, she expressed both sur- 
prise and pleasure. 

It was impossible not to love Lucy, when you looked at her ; but it was some- 
what doubtful if that sentiment would continue when you knew her. Her eyes 
were black, quick, and quite as likely to sparkle with anger as with pleasure. 
She was very petite , lively, thoughtless, and possessed precisely those acquire- 
ments that were useless in an Irish cottage. The daughter of a grocer in Ply- 
mouth, she had seen, fallen in love, run away with, and married Edward in the 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 89 

short space of three weeks; and had not yet numbered sixteen years. Her 
youth pleaded strongly in her favour : but her extreme giddiness kept Lilly, the 
sweet, the patient Lilly, perpetually on the watch, lest she might do something 
to annoy her mother-in-law. It is true she quilled Mrs. Cassidy’s caps in so new 
and bewitching a style that everybody said Lucy made the good lady look ten 
years younger. She washed her old mode cloak in some stuff, of which whiskey 
and beer were the principal ingredients, and made it appear, to the astonishment 
of the whole parish, “ bran new.” Then she trimmed bonnets — one yard and a 
half of riband, managed by her, went as far as three and a quarter (’t is an abso- 
lute fact) with anybody else. She could work natural flowers upon gauze, and 
embroider the corners of pocket handkerchiefs. She could even get up fine 
linen : but she could neither spin flax or wool, card, or milk, or churn, or cram 
fowl, or make butter, or a shirt of any description : the worst of all was, she said, 
unfortunately, that she was certain no Christian body could eat bread made from 
the flour that was pounded out by those dirty stones ; thus bringing Mrs. Cassidy’s 
invaluable quern into contempt. Then it was quite impossible to keep her quiet 
everything excited her risibility. One day, in particular, when the turkey-cock, 
affronted at Mrs. Cassidy’s scarlet petticoat, which outvied his own red neck, 
picked unmercifully at her legs, Lucy only laughed, and never went to the rescue, 
which induced the old lady to say, that “ Ned pretended to bring home a wife, 
but had only brought home a doll.” 

Lilly might be well called her guardian angel ; when, like a school girl, she 
scampered over the fields, gathering flowers, or hunting every cock, hen, and 
chicken, over the potato ridges, Lilly followed to prevent her over-fatiguing 
herself, and to assist her home ; then she would instruct her how to please her 
mother-in-law ; and, if Mrs. Cassidy complained, Lilly had always some remark 
to soften down what was said. Her general apology was— “ She ’s so young, 
but she ’ll soon be a mother, and thin she ’ll get sense.” 

“ I wonder Ned did not fall in love with you, Lilly,” said Lucy, one day ; 
“ I ’m sure you ’d have made a better wife for him than ever I shall !” How 
poor Lilly blushed, and then turned pale; but Lucy heeded it not. “How 
industrious Ned grows ! — well, they would not believe, in Plymouth, that he ’d 
ever settle down into a farmer, but I ’m sure he works in the fields from morn- 
ing till night.” 

“ People who are not rich must work, Lucy.” 

“ Now, Lilly, that ’s a hit at me, who let you do everything ; but do not look 
so angry with me, dearest Lilly ; I beg pardon, you never hit at anybody. Oh ! 
you are not like an Irishwoman !” 

“ Oh, Lucy, dear ! — don’t be after talking that way o’ the country, afore my 
aunt, for it hurts her ; and ye must remimber how much she ’s thought of in 
the par ish,” 

« Well, there, I’ll be good as gold — there;” and she sat down to work at some 
caps for a little stranger that was expected soon. 

Edward was very affectionate to his young wife, although her heedlessness 
12 


90 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


often annoyed him ; but when he gazed on her fairy-like beauty, he forgave it. 
The Protestant church was too far for her to walk ; she would not go to mass, 
and her husband loved her too well to permit her to be teased on the subject 
Her mother-in-law, and even Lilly, were grieved at this, and lamented that 
she thought so little about serious things ; however, Mrs. Cassidy always re- 
conciled it to herself, by saying, “ Niver mind, she ’ll be all the asier brought 
round to the right way, by-and-by.” But, of all the amusements in which the 
thoughtless creature delighted, nothing pleased her so much as boating ; if she 
could even get into a boat by herself, she would paddle it round the creeks, and 
into the bays, which in some places are overhung by scowling rocks, where the 
sea-birds nestle in safety. 

“ The potatoes are almost done, by their bubbling, I suppose, Lilly,” said 
she, one day, “ so I ’ll go and meet Ned as he comes up from the plough, and 
we shall be just in time for dinner;” and away she tripped, singing as blithely 
as a lark. 

“She has a light heart,” thought Lilly; “and why not? — mine is not as 
heavy as it used to be : well, thank God, it does make people happy to do their 
duty;” and she assisted the little serving -girl in arranging all things in their 
kitchen — a task soon performed ; the potatoes, laughing and smoking, were 
poured out on a clean, home-bleached cloth, and the white noggins frothed with 
fresh buttermilk of Lilly’s own churning. Something prepared with extra 
care, for the delicate Englishwoman, was covered between two delf plates at 
the fire, and Mrs. Cassidy stood watching at the door, her hand lifted to her 
eyes, to shade them from the noon-day sun, while Lilly mixed some gooseberry 
wine with water and sugar for Lucy. 

“ Lilly, didn’t ye say that Lucy went to meet Ned ?” 

“Yes, aunt.” 

“ Well, here’s Ned at the gate almost, and no sign o’ Lucy.” 

“ That ’s mighty strange,” replied Lilly, advancing ; “ Ned, where ’s Lucy ?” 

“ At her dinner, I suppose.” 

“ Now, don’t be so foolish, I ’m sure she met ye.” 

“ She did not, indeed, and I was longing to see her.” 

“ It is some of her childish tricks,” said Mrs. Cassidy. 

“ Her dinner ’ll be stone could, though,” said Lilly, looking out ; “ so I ’ll jist 
go see if I can meet her, and sit ye all down, or the pratees ’ll not be fit to 
ate ;” and she issued forth without further parley. 

Ned did not sit down, although his mother urged him. “ Her dinner has 
nothin’ to do with yours, Ned ; sure Lilly has something nice under the plate 
for her. No sign of her yet,” she continued, after a pause ; “ sure she wouldn’t 
be so foolish as to go to Tim Lavery’s boat, for a bit of a spree ; I caught her 
in it reading yesterday, but it was anchored safe, sure enough.” 

Ned made no reply, but followed the footsteps of his cousin ; the field he 
had been ploughing was very near the beach ; he hastily gained it, and his 
horror and dismay can be better conceived than* expressed, when, gaining the 


LILLY O BRIEN. 


91 

cliff, the first object he beheld was Lilly, half in and half out of the water, 
dragging to shore the apparently lifeless body of his wife. When Lilly left the 
cottage, she first looked behind the large furze and hawthorn bushes, near the 
field, and then the boat occurred to her ; she sped to the sea, and saw it in 
shallow water, but upset, with Lucy clinging to the stern, faint and exhausted. 
To plunge into the water and bring her to land, was the work but of a moment, 
and done before Edward could descend the cliffs. 

The thoughtless creature was soon conveyed home. Her nerves were quite 
shattered ; she clung closely to Lilly’s bosom, like a frightened child, and did 
not even return her husband’s caresses. She was hardly laid on her bed, when 
shrieks of agony succeeded the half-murmured words and sobbings of terror ; 
and, after long and painful suffering, the being, who, not many hours before, 
had bounded in the full light and life of early youth, gave premature birth to a 
living child, and then yielded up her own existence. It was very sorrowful to 
mark the merry eyes closed for ever beneath their alabaster lids, and the long 
black lashes resting on her colourless cheeks. 

Then came a long and loud debate between the Protestant and Catholic 
priests, as to who was to perform the last rites ; as if the spirit’s happiness de- 
pended on man’s words repeated over inanimate clay. The widower roused 
himself from the lethargy that succeeds the first rush of impetuous grief, and 
said calmly, but firmly — “ Plase your reverences, I ’m a Catholic, and ever was 
and will be ; but she that ’s gone from me was born a Protestant — married a 
Protestant — and, as she died one, so shall she be buried, and that ’s enough ; 
and what ’s more, I promised her, when I didn’t think that death and desolation 
would come at this time, that if the child was a girl it should go wid her, 
if a boy, wid me. Now, gentlemen, I ’m not a larned man, but my mind 
is, that a promise, to the dead or the living, is holy and firm in its natur’ ; 
and so, as I promised, it shall be. I couldn’t look upon the babby’s face 
for a king’s ransom, nor do I know whether it be boy or girl ; mother, say 
what is it ?” 

“ A girl,” replied Mrs. Cassidy. 

‘‘Well, may-be more betther; may-be you’d just baptize it, Mr. Barlow, 
and Lilly and my mother ’ll stand for it ; as my notion is it can’t live — and why 
should it?” 

But the little Lucy did live — thanks to Lilly’s fostering care ; and so fragile 
a thing it was, that even a rough kiss might have killed it. A nurse was im- 
mediately procured, and Lilly had the satisfaction of seeing all Mrs. Cassidy’s 

solicitude directed towards the infant; nay, she almost forgot the quern, and 
the only danger was, that the child would be destroyed by kindness. There 
was, however, to Lilly’s delicate mind, something most improper in her 
remaining in the same house with her cousin. He was again free ; al- 
though she hoped that he did not suspect her love, yet he knew of his 

mother’s old plan ; he had once, in anger, reproached her as being accessary 
to it ; and Lilly decided on leaving our village. Edward, since sorrow had laid 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


92 

her hand on him, was an altered man, and Mrs. Cassidy was enjoying a vigorous 
old age : so she could leave her, assured of happiness. It was a bitter trial to 
forsake her little godchild, yet she felt she owed a duty to herself. Mr. Herriott’s 
family were again about to visit Dublin, and, without imparting her plan to any 
one, she offered her services to Miss Herriott. They were joyfully accepted ; 
not without many expressions of wonder, that “ the Bannow Lilly,” the flower 
of the whole country side, should leave a spot where she was so much beloved. 
Lilly pleaded a wish for improvement, and finally arranged to set off with Miss 
Herriott in three days. As she returned she heard Peggy’s loud voice, singing 
her old favourite, “ The Colleen Rue,” just as she got to her favourite stanza — 

“ I ranged through Asia — likewise Arabia, 

Through Penselvanie, a seeking for you ; 

Through the burning region of the siege of Paris,” — 

when she espied Lilly in her decent mourning habit. 

“ The blessing be about ye, my precious ! — and may-be ye ’d tell us where 
ye ’ve been. Sorra a bit o’ news going now for a poor body.” 

“ I ’ve been up to Mrs. Herriott’s, Peggy.” 

“ Och ! they ’re going to Dublin, all the way, on Tuesday. Sure that ’ll be 
the black journey for the poor. You needn’t care, Miss Lilly : sure you ’ve full 
and plinty, and an own fireside.” 

“ I ’m going as own maid with Miss Herriott, Peggy ; — there ’s a small taste 
of news for yer comfort,” continued Lilly, smiling — “ and more, betokens, you ’ve 
the first of it, for I ’ve not tould my aunt yet.” 

“ You going ? Och, oh, oh ! — don’t be making yer fun of us after that fashion ; 
we know betther nor that.” 

“ It’s quite true, for all ye may think, and so God be wid ye, Peggy ! You 
and poor Coal will often cross my mind when I ’m alone among strangers.” 

“ Arrah, now, stop ! — sure ye can’t be in arnist. Sure there ’s not a living 
sowl in the parish but says you ’ll be married to Ned now ; and at St. Pathrick’s 
sure I hard ’em talking about it ; and how Harry Connor ’s priested ; sure he ’s 
Father Harry for your sake.” 

“ Peggy, I take shame to myself for harkening to your palaver for a moment ; 
dacent talk ye have, and the young grass not green on her grave yet ! Once 
more I say, God be wid ye.” I have done right, thought she, but I shall not be 
able to make my dear aunt think so. 

Poor Mrs. Cassidy scolded and cried with might and main ; and Ned remon- 
strated, and even said that he took it very unkind of her to leave them, and 
above all, the little thing whose life she had saved. But Lilly was firm, and 
departed amid the reproaches and tears of her aunt, and the heartfelt regret of 
her neighbours. 

How very irksome were her employments !— how did she shrink from the rude 
gaze of gentlemen and gentlemen’s gentlemen, who, astonished at her full-blown 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


93 

beauty, paid homage by staring her out of countenance ; and how often did she 
long for the quiet of the lowly cottage in the isolated village of Bannow ! At 
first she imagined that city people must be very superior to country ones. But 
she soon grew tired of the pert flippancy and foolish airs of the servants whom 
she met ; and by Miss Herriott’s permission, retired, when unoccupied, to the 
solitude of her kind lady’s dressing-room. She received letters once a month 
generally, from her cousin. The two first, in addition to the necessary informa- 
tion, anxiously entreated her return, but latterly (for the stay of the family was 
prolonged, owing to Mrs. Herriott’s illness) the subject was never mentioned ; 
and the bitter feeling, that there no longer existed any one to love her, weighed 
heavily on her heart. Sixteen months had elapsed since Lucy’s death ; and 
Edward ever spoke of his child with all a father’s fondness. Lilly longed to see 
it, but she had resolved on never again living with her aunt — and she remained 
firm to her resolution. 

She had been dressing her young lady one morning, when, passing down 
stairs, the footman said — “ There ’s one in the housekeeper’s room that wants 
ye.” She hardly entered when she was almost suffocated by the embraces of 
Mrs. Cassidy; and then she had to encounter the respectful but affectionate 
greetings of her cousin. Her aunt earnestly looked at her, would not sit down, 
but said — “ Now, my darlint Lilly, it is much ye ought to thank me for this 
journey — in my ould age to take to the road agin ; but ye see the rason is, that 
Ned is tired o’ being a bachelor, and he ’s going to change his condition, and jist 
wants to ax your advice and consint.” 

“ Mine !” 

“ Now mother dear don’t be mumming,” said Ned : “ Lilly I come to ax ye 
to accept the hand of one who is unworthy to be yer husband, but yet would 
die to make you happy. Lilly, don’t cast me off— for my mother’s sake — for 
my own — for this one’s sake and he took from the arms of our old friend, 
Peggy the Fisher, a smiling, black-eyed little creature, who almost instantly 
nestled its curly pate in Lilly’s bosom. “ Sure ye can make us all happy, if ye 
like ; and we ’ll be all in quiet Bannow agen. Say, Lilly ! Oh, don’t look so 
could on me !” 

“ Will ye hould your whisht, Ned !” interrupted Peggy ; “ If ever I see ’d any- 
body trated in that mismannerly fashion ! Can’t ye see wid half an eye that the 
cratur ’s as good as fainted, ye omathawn ! No wonder, and ye both bellower- 
ing thegither. Ye don’t know how to make a dacent proposhal ; ye ’ve fright- 
ened the grawl betwixt ye — whisht, honey, whisht ! (to the child) — there ’s a 
woman ! — ay — come to your own Peggy, that hushowed ye oftin ; and will 
agin, by the blessin’ o’ God.” 

Lilly, literally unable to stand, sank into the housekeeper’s chair. Edward 
knelt at her side ; and his mother, holding one of her hands to her heart, 
looked earnestly on her face, while Peggy, “ husnowing” the child, was not an 
uninterested spectator. 

“ God knows,” said the young woman, after a little time, “ I did not expect 


94 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


this. Aunt, when I had no father to protect me — no mother to feel for me — 
you did both ; you shared with me what you had ; and, oh ! what was more 
than all — while I ate o’ yer bread, and drank o’ yer cup, ye never made me 
feel that it was not my father’s roof that shelthered me. Ned, we grew to- 
gether, and you were to me as a born brother. But ye wronged me, Ned, that 
night ; the first time (and God, that hears me, knows it,) the first time I ever 
guessed my aunt wished me to be nearer to her than her brother’s child : that 
night, when, to prevint yer laving home, I proposed to quit for ever my only 
frind ; when I did her bidding, an’ followed ye through the moonlight, to bring 
ye back to yer poor ould mother, ye cast a black word in my face, and ye said 
that I — I, Lilly O’Brien — was leagued agin ye — and that I followed ye to get 
a husband.” She covered her face with her hands, and faintly continued, “ I 
have never forgotten it ; I have prayed to do so. No one ever knew it, buf 
Peggy ; she, overheard it. Oh ! it weighed here, at the very bottom of my 
heart, and when I slept it was wid me ; it — ” 

“Oh, Lilly, how can ye take on so! — sure it was the bad temper that did 
it, and I didn’t mane it. And sure you ’ve proved since that it ’s little truth 
was in it; sure ye’ve been more like an angel than anything else; and sure 
when I ax yer pardon — ” 

“ Stop Ned, ye do now ; but may-be, by an’ by, ye might say the same 
thing agen ; and if ye did it, and if we were married, I could never look up 
after !” 

“Why, Lilly,” said Mrs. Cassidy, “ye’re making him out a fair black 
villain, after all yer goodness, to think he’d do the likes o’ that — after yer 
coming over me, to take an oath to resave him and his , as my own , whin a word 
was only wanting to make me ban him for iver.” 

“And after her flying at me like a mad cat,” echoed Peggy, “becase I 
gave her a bit of advice (for I was fairly bothered) to take care of a little pro- 
perty for herself.” 

“ Ay, and all her attintion to the stranger,” resumed Mrs. Cassidy. 

“And her sinding him her own three pounds to bring him home,” said 
Peggy. 

“ How do you know that ?” inquired Lilly. 

“Is it how I know it? Why, thin, I’ll jist tell ye. I knew yer aunt 
hadn’t a tester in the house, becase she ’d given me every pinny to exchange 
for gould, that she might pay her rint in it — not in dirty paper — to plase the 
landlord.” 

“Yer good deeds are all known, Lilly. Oh, let me say my Lilly; sure 
ye’ll forgive yer cousin. How can I admire ye as I ought? — don’t shake yer 
head, Lilly dear — but — ” 

The opening of the door prevented the conclusion of Edward’s speech ; and 
Miss Herriott entered, her face radiant with satisfaction. « So, Lilly, I am to 
lose you ; nay, do not talk girl, I know you love him ; I knew it all along ; 
Peggy told me all about it, at the end of the shrubbery, the night before we left 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 95 

Bannow; and my dressmaker has made the wedding-dress, oecause Edwara 
Cassidy w r rote to me, and asked my opinion and consent ; which w r as fitting ; 
and I assured him you had- not been flirting with any one, and invited him and 
my old friend up to Dublin ; as to you Peggy, I never expected you, but you 
are not less welcome.” 

“ Why, I thank ye, Miss, my lady ; I jist came to see how ye all war, and 
to mind the child, and to look at the fine beautiful city, and the college, that 
bates the world for laming, as I have hard, and the ancient ould Parliament- 
house ; and thin go back, and give rest to my bones among my own people ; 
but I hope ye ’ll persuade Miss Lilly, my lady, for her own good ; sure they 
love each other — and what more’s wanting for happiness'?” 

“ Ay, do, Miss, she ’ll do yer bidding, may-be ; she’s forgotten mine ;” and 
tears rolled down the wrinkled cheeks of Mrs. Cassidy. 

“ Not so,” replied Miss Herriott ; and taking Lilly’s hand she placed it in 0 
Edward’s ; “ and now,” continued the amiable girl, “ kneel for the blessing 
that ascends to the throne of the Almighty, like a sweet-smelling savour — the 
blessing of an honest parent.” They dropped on their knees, and Mrs. Cassidy 
pressed them to her satisfied heart. 

“ And sure that ’s as good as a play,” blubbered Peggy. 

“Well Peggy, you shall see a play if you please, to-morrow evening; but 
first I invite you to Lilly’s wedding, which will take place to-morrow at four 
o’clock, in our great drawing-room, agreeably to the forms of the Catholic 
church, by a Catholic priest. Nay, Lilly, it is the last time I shall ever com- 
mand you ; so I bid you all farewell for the present.” And the good, and kind, 
and generous young lady left them to their “ own company which, it is 
scarcely necessary for me to say, was not very doleful or wretched ; for although 
the heart of one of the party was too- full for words, ample amends was made 
for her silence by the ever talkative Peggy. 

At three quarters of an hour past three (I love to be exact in these 
matters), Miss Herriott inspected her company in the back drawing-room. 
The arrangements for the ceremony highly amused her ; first, Mrs. Cassidy, 
in an open rose-coloured poplin dress, as stiff as buckram, with tight sleeves 
reaching to the elbows, where they were met by white mittens, that had been 
the gift of Miss Herriott’s grandmother, and which the old lady prized so 
highly that they had only twice seen the light in twenty years; a blue satin 
quilted petticoat, ditto, ditto; a white muslin apron, flounced all round; . 
high-heeled shoes, with massy silver buckles; a clear kerchief, pinned in the 
fashion that used to be called “ pigeon’s craw,” and a high-cauled cap, trimmed 
with rich lace, completed her costume. Peggy sported a large flowered chintz, 
whereon pink parrots, yellow goldfinches, and bunches of roses bigger than 
either goldfinch or parrot, clustered together in open defiance of nature and 
the arts ; this was made after Mrs. Cassidy’s pattern, and displayed to advan- 
tage a pea-green English stuff petticoat, quilted in diamonds. There was 
little variation from Mrs. Cassidy’s fashion in the other et ceteras, except that 


96 


LILLY O’BRIEN. 


Peggy wore a flaming yellow silk shawl, with a blue border ; that, to use her 
own expression, “ matched everything.” 

Lilly looked beautiful — most beautiful. Miss Herriott dressed her as she 
pleased ; in white — pure white ; would not permit her to wear a cap, but let her 
hair curl after its own fashion, only confining it with a wreath of lilies of the 
valley. 

There is no use in describing Edward’s dress ; all bridegrooms, I believe, wear 
blue coats with yellow buttons and white waistcoats. The little Lucy had a 
clean white frock, and a lobster’s claw to keep her quiet. 

Oh ! what a happy group of humble people were assembled in that gay drawl- 
ing-room ! Mrs. Cassidy — the desire of heart gratified, the hope of years real- 
ized, the fervent and continual prayer answered — Mrs. Cassidy was, beyond 
doubt, the happiest of them all, as she sat, with her cheerful and grateful face, 
contemplating her “ two children.” 

“ Ye ’re both too handsome and too good for me,” whispered Ned, as he con- 
ducted Lilly to the great drawing-room, closely followed by her condescending 
bridemaid. Lilly courtesied as she entered, but did not look off* the ground un- 
til an exclamation of surprise, from the bridegroom, roused her attention, and 
she saw — Harry Connor ! — F ather Harry ! — ready to perform the marriage cere- 
mony. 

“ It is even your old friend,” said he, advancing ; “ Mr. Herriott, at my re- 
quest, consented to my surprising you. Ned, when I give you this girl as your 
wife, I give you one whom no earthly feeling could tempt from the path of strict 
honour. She told me once that her hand should never go without her heart, 
and your being together proves you have it ; a blessing will she be to thee, my 
early friend.” A single tear glistened on his cheek as he pronounced the words 
that made them husband and wife : — it was a tear of which a seraph might not 
have been ashamed. 

Four years have passed since that happy marriage; and can you not tell who 
— seeking to abstract herself from household cares and blessings, only that she 
may render grateful homage to her Creator — sits, after evening vespers, with 
clasped hands and downcast eyes, her national hood shading, but not obscuring 
the beauty of her pensive face, near yonder cottage, that looks so joyously in 
the setting sun which sheds such glorious light over the ocean, that reflects every 
passing cloud upon its calm, clear bosom ? See her again, within the porch of 
her dwelling, where the flowers are blossoming ; and where she has other blos- 
soms than the flowers give. She is approaching the bloom of womanhood ; yet 
grace is in all her movements. Her kerchief is carefully pinned across her bo- 
som, and two or three rich auburn tresses that obstinately come forth, and will 
not be confined by the neat cap of snowy whiteness, move in the passing breeze ; 
— that dark-eyed and dark-haired little girl, buoyant and animated, cannot be 
her child : yet it clings to her neck, and calls her “ mother.” There — the honest 
farmer, returning from his toil, is met by two almost infant prattlers ; the young- 


LILLI o’brien. 97 

est a perfect specimen of childish helplessness and beauty ; — and, peering from 
the window, is the hardly a k <ered face of — Mrs. Cassidy. 

“ Oh, that voice ! — it is Peggy’s — old Peggy — as she is still called, “ Peggy 
the Fisher.” She has “ a good penny o’ money of her own,” and sometimes 
visits around the neighbourhood ; but she is so strongly attached to the family 
to whom the cottage belongs, that she almost resides there. 

“ Och, ye craturs, like fairy things, come in to the tay ! — sure it ’s not fit for 
the likes o’ ye to be muddling in the grass, even after y’er daddy, ye born blos- 
soms ! — ye bames o’ joy ! — ye comforts o’ the ould ’ooman’s heart ! Come, all 
o’ ye to your own Peggy. Och ! ’t is myself must set about, fair and asy, to 
my sowl, and not be passing my time, like the flowers in May, wid the young 
blossoms of the Bannow Lilly.” 




PETER THE PROPHET. 



ON’T talk to me, Paddy Mulvany — don’t talk to me ! 
— where’s the use of your talking, chitter-chatter, 
chitter-chatter, like a nest of magpies ? Don’t I know 
what I know! — Improvements, indeed! — answer me 
this : am not I fifty- two years and three months old — 
and having a fine memory, as well as much foresight 
—thanks be to God for the same— don’t I recollect as 
good as fifty years? And what then? Why this; 
that all the trading-boats landed, on that out shore, 
safe and sound, whatever was wanted. — Don’t tell me 
of the place being inconvanient, Paddy Mulvany : it ’s 
no such thing. In a peaceable village, building a quay 
to land coal ! As if the people can’t burn turf, as 
their grandfathers did afore them! And timber! — 
won’t wattles do for the cabins as well as ever ? But 
mark the upshot of this — every potato, every grain of 
corn, ’ll be bought up, and sent out of the country, when 
the English boats come in, and we shall be all starved ; and neither man 
woman, nor child, will be left alive to tell the story.” 




V * 



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✓ 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


99 

“ Why, thin, Mister Peter, sure it ’s yerself that sees the sunny side of a 
thing ; ye ’ve a mighty cheering way wid ye, ever and always,” said Paddy 
Mulvany, looking archly at his companion. 

“Sunny side! — Why, there’s no sunny side, man alive, to see. When 
Wellington Bridge was built over the Scar, and sure they were talking of that 
bridge more than a hundred years before it was begun ; — no good will come of 
it, says I, and I was right ; it has now been built three years, and no road 
made to it yet ; and, by the same token, it ’s cracked in the middle ; I knew no 
good would come of it. Oh, what sarvice that money would have done the 
neighbours, if it had been properly laid out !” 

“ Troth, Master Peter, you may say that — that is, I suppose, if you had 
had the management of it; but any how, the quay’ll be built in spite o’ ye; 
for it ’s an English gentleman that has taken it in hand ; and, bless ye, although 
I know ye kept a creditable shop in the town o’ Ross, you have no notion how 
quick they get things done in England. Sure I see it all whin I used to take 
Mister Nick Lett’s pigs to Bristol fair ; ye ’d hardly credit it, but I have seen 
an entire street of houses built up, plastered, painted, papered — great, big houses 
— and the people ateing, drinking, and sleeping in thim, comfortable as anything, 
all in one week. Bless ye, they go about things, and finish them out of hand 
in a jiffy !” 

“ So much the worse — so much the worse, Paddy Mulvany ; no good can 
come of that ; but I suppose, as you say an Englishman has taken it in hand, 
the quay will be built. Ye’re all mad', I believe, barring myself; I see how it 
will end ; but, you mark my words, Paddy Mulvany, no good will come of it. 
I ’ll just step over to see what they’re after down yonder ; so good-bye, Paddy 
— remember my words !” 

“ God be wid ye, Master Peter. Hulloo ! I forgot to tell you that Friar 
Mulloy’s brown nag pitched him into the ditch, and Mister Hollin’s chimbly took 
fire on account of the new English way of sweeping ; they put a goose at the 
top of the chimbly, and let it fly down.” 

“ There, didn’t I say so ?” replied the little man, stopping and looking as pleased 
as Punch at the narrative of accidents. “ Sure, I told Friar Mulloy, ‘ that 
nag ’ll brake yer reverence’s neck,’ said I — I knew T it ; mark my words : and as 
to the chimbly, — sure I guessed that, though I said nothin’ about it.” 

“ Why, thin, ye ’re a quare little animal of a Christian, and ye believe every 
word I said, ye little fool of a thing!” continued Paddy, as he looked after 
Master Peter Callaghan, alias , “ Peter the Prophet,” alias, “ Peter the Croaker ;” 
“ and it ’s a dale more ye think of yerself than anybody thinks of ye ; so much 
the better ; one madman in the parish is enough. But yon chap ’s not to say 
clane mad, only a little touched, and mighty puffed out, thinking he ’s got more 
in his brain-box than any other body in the whole kingdom — priests and bishops 
into the bargain. God forgive us all our sins l” 

And Paddy went off in an opposite direction from Peter the Prophet, who 
journeyed towards the intended quay. Peter was a slight, stiff, pertinacious, 


100 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


pragmatic old bachelor — sour as a crab apple, and obstinate as a mule; he had 
realized a small independence, and invariably passed his summer months 
Bannow, having taken it into his head that sea air did him much good ; he was 
a source of great amusement to the peasantry, who named him “ Peter the 
Prophet,” from his habit of prognosticating ; others called him “ Peter the 
Croaker,” for he always prophesied evil. Paddy Mulvany was a very different 
person — a cheerful, careless Irishman, whom the farmers held in constant 
request as a drover. The most wealthy considered themselves fortunate in 
securing Paddy’s services, when cattle were to be* sent to England or Wales. 
In matters of business, Paddy’s word was •'his bond; and, although he could 
neither, read nor write, his accounts were always “fractionally” correct, and he 
made most extraordinary sales for his employers ; he had not even his national 
fault, the love of whiskey ; but I confess that he sometimes indulged in most 
marvellous stories, and often quizzed without mercy. He took especial delight 
in tormenting Master Peter, and it was perfectly astonishing how “ the Prophet” 
could ever have believed a word that Paddy Mulvany uttered. He spoke the 
truth, however, in saying that an English gentleman was going to build a quay 
in Bannow harbour ; no spot could be better suited for the purpose than 
that so judiciously fixed upon ; it was well sheltered, and beautifully situated, 
with sufficient water to float a thirty-ton sloop, even when the tide was out — 
the road which led to it was a succession of hill and dale, at one side shadowed 
by trees, while the view, on the other, passed over sunny fields and little 
cottages, and was terminated in the distance by the sea — the boundless sea, 
forming innumerable creeks and bays along the coast. The little island opposite 
was enlivened by a cheerful-looking farm house, while a few relics of some old 
castles, o’er parts of which — 

t 

“ The plough had passed, or weeds had grown,” 

served as a relief to the sameness of the view, and afforded subject for medita- 
tion : on the land side, high hills rose above the valley in rude magnificence, 
their heathy hue broken by patches of cultivation ; and, indeed, nowhere could 
a more interesting spot be found, than the one selected by the English gentle- 
man, Mr. Townsend, for the long-projected quay. I lament, for the sake of 
Peter the Prophet’s reputation, to be compelled to state that all things went on 
prosperously at the new building ; and even the gentry were astonished at the 
rapidity with which the work proceeded ; eacih man had his allotted portion, 
and the wages were paid every Saturday evening, precisely as the clock struck 
six. To the quay were added stores and a salt manufactory; and, before a 
twelvemonth had elapsed, all was finished — properly finished, plastered, and 
pointed ; the windows were even and set — the slates regularly pegged — the tiles 
all of a size-— and the buildings had a neat and business-like appearance. 

Peter the Prophet and Paddy Mulvany met at nearly the same place where 
they had separated about a year before, and both turned their steps towards the 
new quay. 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


101 


“It’s a fine . sunny day — God bless it! — Mister Peter, and I suppose ye’re 
^©ing to the new quay to see the fun ; it .was, I must say, very generous of Mr. 
Townsend to give us a let-out; all the top of the gintry are to have a grand 
entertainment — a cold collution they call it — up stairs in the stores ; and below 
there’s a piper — and who knows what! — and the atin’ and the drinkin’ in 
lashin’s — and the two sloops, that are after cornin’ in wij;h the timber and coal, 
have such gay streamers out as it’s quite charmin’ to see.” 

“ I don’t see anything charming in it, Paddy Mulvany — charming in a 
coloured rag flying, red and blue, like a turkey cock ! — and as to the entertain- 
ment — mark my words, no good vfcill cbme of it. What are entertainments of 
all kinds but empty puff— 4 vain show,’ as the poet says I — but you have no taste 
for poetry. No; few have ; I had, however — but Igave it up — I had a turn 
for the grocery business, and poetry ; but no man can be great in two things — 
so I fixed on the former.” 

“ That was a mercy, Mister Peter, for somehow, although I am but an igno- 
rant man, seeing I don’t known B from a buttercup, yet I think yer poetry 
wouldn’t have sould as well as yer tea and sugar.” 

“ Humph 1” replied the Prophet : “ I see, Paddy, that long red house is to 
be let, and the owner’s off to America ; tfrere — my words always come true; 
no good will come of that man, says I, and so it was.” 

“ Why, I knew no good could come of him myself,” replied Paddy ; “ who 
ever saw a good end come to any one that was hard to the poor ? — besides being 
unjust, didn’t he write a will, and make his dead uncle put his name on it, by 
houlding the corpse’s hand? and then he swore he had life in him at. the time 
— and troth, so he had, for he put a live worm in the dead man’s mouth — the 
baste !” 

“ That’s one of your stories, Paddy ; like what you told me, long ago, about 
Friar Mullov’s brown nag, and Mr. Hollin’s chimbly ; there goes the friar; 
that ’s not a nag, but a fine hunter he’s on now ; I suppose that’s the one Paul 
Doolan gave him for marrying him to that foolish bit of a widow ; he’s a holy 
man, without doubt; but mark my words, that beast will break his neck, it’s so 
spirity !” 

“ As to the worm, ye may believe it or not, as you plase, Mister Peter, but 
it’s as true as the sun’s above us ; and as to Friar Mulloy, sure all the world 
know^ he’s a holy man, and a good ; never a cratur passes his door without the 
bit and the sup, barring the gauger — the blackguard ! — that tuck his potteen, 
and kilt his ilegant little bit of a mare. Oh ! wisha ! every day’s bad luck to 
him for that same !” 

“ Is it true that your niece, Alice, is going to be married to Corrv Howlan? 
She’s a sweet pretty girl, but — ” 

44 Now, Mister Peter, or Peter the Prophet, or whatever other name you 
may have, I’ll just trouble ye to hould yer tongue about Alice and Corry ; not 
that I care a toss-up (with all due respect) for yer prophecies, although ye want 
everybody to believe ye’ve the second sight, like a Highlander; but ve see, as 


102 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


they are to be married, it’s unlucky to have any ill laid out for them ; and as to 
the girl, God’s blessing be about her ! she ’s the light of my eyes, and the joy of 
my heart, every day and hour of her life, the jewil.” 

Peter looked annoyed at hearing his prophetic powers called in question, but 
he deemed it safer to hold his peace foT a time ; at all events, until they came in 
view of the new quay. 

Along a green, shady lane, which led to the centre of that day’s attraction, 
two people were walking, or rather strolling, very different in appearance from 
Paddy and Peter. — A lively, lovely girl, with roguish, hazel eyes — not the soft 
sleeping eye of that bewitching colour, but a round? brilliant little orb, now 
twinkling, now dazzling, now half shut, not unfrequently stealing und®rf its pent- 
house lid to “ the far corner,” and peeping slyly about, for fun or mischief ; the 
nose of this little personage was, moreover, retroussee — an unerring token of 
much spirit, and, if vexed, not a little spite. But it was the glittering fairness 
of this fairy creature which, united to the pure glow of health and cheerfulness, 
completed her fascination, and made Alice Mulvany the most perfect bit ol 
Nature’s colouring I ever had the good fortune to behold. Her companion, 
Corry Howlan, could not have been mistaken as belonging to any country, 
principality, or power, but the green little island. How often have I been 
both amused and mortified at hearing my English friends exclaim, whenever a 
particularly miserable, dirty, round-faced person met their view, “ Oh, how 
like an Irishman!” — “quite impossible to mistake that creature for anything 
but an Irishman !” Trust me, tho^e know little of our peasantry who judge of 
them from bricklayers’ labourers, superannuated watchmen, and Covent- 
garden basket-women. Corry Howlan was a good specimen of our small 
farmers, and I will sketch him for your amusement, gentle reader, as he 
loitered down that green lane with his merry companion: — height, six feet, or 
nearly so — an air of easy confidence, and every limb well proportioned ; face 
oval ; teeth, white and even ; nose, undefined as to aquiline, Grecian, snub, or 
Roman, but, nevertheless, highly respectable; eyes, large, bien foncee , and 
expressive ; brow, open — shaded with rich, curling, brown hair ; the dress, as 
usual on holiday occasions — red waistcoat, blue coat, knee-breeches, white 
stockings, neat, black, Spanish leather shoes — shirt-collar thrown back, a-la- 
Byron , loosely confined at the base by a green silk neckerchief, — a “ bran new 
beaver,” placed on one side the head in a knowing position, and a stick, not 
dignified enough to be designated as “ shilalah,” nor slight enough to be called 
“ switch.” There are many likenesses which, though correct as to shape and 
feature, fail in expression ; and so it is in the present instance. I cannot paint 
the affectionate feelings portrayed in the young man’s face, when his eyes 
rested on the careless, thoughtless girl who tripped at his side, as giddy as the 
gay butterfly that waved from the perfumed meadow-sweet to the beautiful but 
scentless convolvulus, whose long, twirling stems were supported, at either side 
their path, by black thorn or greeny furze. One of the most beautiful features in 
an Irish landscape is the quantity of small singing-birds which animate every 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


103 

brake and bush. As they paced along, the young folk disturbed either the 
soaring lark, the merry stone-chatter, the gay goldfinch, the tiny wren, the 
linnet, bunting, or yellow-hammer ; when they approached the thicker coverts, 
a jetty blackbird, or timid partridge, would rustle for a moment amid the leaves, 
and then dart across their path, swift as an arrow. 

“ The poor, harmless birdeens !” said Corry ; “ Alice, do you know, I nevei 
could hurt one of thim small things.” 

“ Well, nor I, Corry,” replied the little lass, “particularly the robin red- 
breast, that has got, you know, the blessed Virgin’s own Son’s blood upon it ; 
for when the Saviour was crucified, the poor bird was heart-sorry, and away it 
flew round the cross, and over the cross, bemoaning all the time ; and whin the 
cruel Jew-man pierced his holy side, some of the blood flew on the cratur’s 
breast, and then it never stopped until it nested in the holy Virgin’s bosom; 
and to be sure, she knew the blood, and the faithfulness of the robin, and she 
blessed it, and settled it so, that every red-breast has the mark of the holy blood 
to this very day.” 

“ You ’ve a good memory, Ally ; I hope you ’ll think of everything as clear 
as that; and, above all, don’t forget what you more than half — indeed, as 
good as whole — promised me last night at yer uncle’s door, and I laning aginst 
the post” 

“I’m sure, Corry, I’ve not the laste thought of anything; — was it about 
Paddy Clarey’s white mare that broke into uncle’s clover-field?” And Alice 
stooped to gather a wild polyanthus, whose blossomy coronal pushed its way 
aver some cuckoo-bells and crawling “ Robin-run-the-hedge.” 

“Ye ’re the devil’s teazer, Ally, darling ! — ye haven’t yer little cocked-up nose 
for nothing.” 

“ Well, if I’m the devil’s teazer, you own yerself the devil; and as to my 
nose, there are plenty to admire it without you.” 

“ Shure it ’s I that do admire it, and what ’s more, love it, and its owner ; but 
Alice, last night, don’t you remember, whin the moonbames fell on your sweet 
face, and whin ye turned away, even from that weak light, to hide yer blushes 

— (that ye did not need, on account that ye’re too handsom, even without them) 

— and whin I held yer hand, and did what I ’m sartin no man living would dare 
to do but myself — kissed it, with warm love, and yet with as much respect as if 
it had been a queen’s: — do you remember — oh, I know you do ! — that whin, 
not only I, but yer uncle, begged ye to fix the day, ye whispered — oh ! it was 
so low, so sweet — sweeter, Alice, than ever I heard even your own sweet voice 
before! — 4 to-morrow I will tell?’ — that, that was all you said; that sweet 
i to-morrow.’ Alice, I have thought on it ever since. You will not disappoint 
me. We can’t fail to be happy; and all so smiling: yer uncle, who loves me 
next to his own ; my mother who dotes upon ye — how could she help it ? — a 
nate farm ; and this morning I ’ve been after a milch-white cow, for the sake of 
the luck — such a one isn’t in the whole bar’ny — and I ’ve bought it too, and 
we ’ll look at it this evening after the bit o’ dance at the new quay. I didn’t 


104 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


mane to tell ye yet, but somehow I can’t keep anything from ye that would give 
ye satisfaction. And now, darlint ! — Ally, my own Ally — the day, the day !’ 
The young man took the maiden’s hand within his, and was about to press it to 
his lips, when, instigated by a sudden fit of caprice, she jerked it from him, and 
averting her head, to hide the self-satisfied smile which played over her counte 
nance, replied : 

“ You need not make so free, sir; I said that, jist to please uncle. I can do 
no such thing ; and I hate white cows.” 

Corry had been long enough a lover to have suffered from those little whim- 
sical tricks which, poor as well as rich, Misses practise for their own amuse- 
ment, and their lovers’ mortification. I must confess, I am often amused at the 
discomfiture the lords of the creation experience upon such occasions ; they twist 
and writhe so much under their sufferings, like eels trying to get out of their 
skin ; anxious to show off in all their native dignity, yet fearing to offend the 
slippery fair one, who, for all her teazing, would not lose the “ tasseled gentil” 
for worlds. Then, after marriage, the noble Sir beginning to think it is his 
turn to show off, grows capricious ; and then some old bachelor uncle, or brother, 
tough and crusty, and perpendicular as a church-steeple, gives the bride-groom 
his “ word of advice, to put his feet in his shoes, keep her nose to the grind- 
ing-stone, support the dignity of his sex, keep his own secrets,” &c. And 
the bride has her “ female friends old maiden aunts, who hate “ male crea- 
tures,” and beg their “ dear niece to have a will and a way of her own, and be 
mistress in her own house and poor relations, anxious that the lady should 
have a private purse, that stumbling-block to domestic happiness : — “ so dis- 
agreeable to go to a husband for every shilling,” — “ no need to inform a man of 
all things ,” — “ never suffer a husband to know how much you love him.” And, 
if these counsellors are attended to, the cat-and-dog warfare commences, and 
the “ I will,” and “ I won’t,” — “ You shall,” “ I shan’t,” — “ Sir,” — “ Madam,” 
all which terminates with the mutual exclamation — “ Would to heaven we had 
never been married !” 

Now, a little harmless teazing does no harm in the world : where “ bear and 
forbear” is moderately attended to, it gives a zest, a spirit to existence ; and 
where there is much and pure affection — 

“ The short passing anger but serves to awaken 
Fresh beauties, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.” 

Not that I mean to say Alice was right in asserting “ she hated white cows,” 
which was a decided story. No Irish girl or woman yet ever hated a white 
cow; the thing is impossible — quite. Everybody, who knows anything, knows 
that a white cow is as good as the priest’s blessing, or holy water, in the house 
of the early wed; and it was much too saucy a thing to say: but her nose was 
up, and her tongue went as nimbly as a greyhound’s foot. 

“ Well, Alice,” replied Corry, who, as I said before, often suffered from his 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


105 


love’s whimseys— “ I ’m perfectly astonished at yer not liking the white cow that 
I bought to plase ye ; but, whin ye see her, I know ye ’ll admire her, beyant— ” 

“Ye n<°ed not have troubled yerself to buy the cow, Mr. Corry, for me; for 
may-be 1 11 never own her,” interrupted Alice. 

“Ye’re not going to be jilty after yer promise, and yer uncle to the fore, 
Alice,” said Corry, who loved her too well to have the wedding jested about. 

“ I gave no promise to be bothered wid ye ; and whether I did or no, I ’ll 
change my mind if I like, myself.” 

“ Is that the pattern of yer honour, Miss Alice Mulvany ?” inquired the young 
man, much annoyed. 

“ Mind yer own business, if ye plase, Mr. Cornelius Howlan, and I ’ll mind 
mine. I ’ve bothered him fairly,” she muttered to herself, “ I knew I ’d get a rise 
out of him.” 

“ May-be, Miss Alice, ye ’d rather have my room than my company ?” 

“ There ’s no manner o’ doubt of it.” 

“ May-be, Miss Mulvany, ye ’d wish me to take my lave ?” 

“Ye have the lave* so now take yerself off,” she replied, very sharply. 

The young man looked earnestly in her face, and said, in his usual affectionate 
tone, “ Dear Alice, let us be friends — dear Alice — you can’t, can’t really mean 
to quarrel with your Corry — dear — ” 

“ Don’t dear Alice me, sir, after that fashion ! Don’t dare to dear Alice me ! 
— what do ye mean? After callin’ me jilty, and all manner o’ names, to be 
coming * dear Alice’ over me ! — no, sir ; and I tell ye my mind, Mister Cornelius 
Howlan, I hate you as well as the white cow, and I won’t dance a step with ye, 
nor spake a word more to ye, this blessed day, Amen ! — and if ye take my 
advice, ye ’ll be off with yerself!” 

Alice, after this pretty, Juece of eloquence, tossed her little head, pressed 
her lips firmly together, and walked sturdily towards the main road. Corry 
did all he could to make her laugh or speak — but no; she was as obstinate as 
a mule. He gathered wild flowers and stuck them in her hat — she flung them 
from her ; he told his drollest stories ; then he reasoned with her ; then, in his 
fine, rich voice, he sung her favourite airs; — and the only wonder is, that she 
managed to hold her tongue so long she afterwards confessed it was sore at 
the tip from inaction. — At last, quite wearied by her stubbornness, Corry said, 
as they drew near the new quay, “ Now look, Alice, I ’ll not taze ye with 
spaking any more this day ; but, may-be, before night comes, you ’ll be sorry 
for this fit of the dumps.*” 

What a cheerful, noisy assemblage ! A pattern ! — a pattern was nothing to 
it. There was the clear sea, and the small waves running little races on the 
firm strand ; the two brigs, the largest ever seen close to the shore in that part 
of the world, drawn up to the quay, which was crowded by the gentry and 
bettermost farmers’ wives and daughters, with the piper at one end, and the 
fiddler at the other, both playing the same tune, of which little could be heard 
for the shouting, the laughing, and the chattering; then the windows of the 
14 


106 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


stores were all open, and such of the ladies as did not like to encounter the 
heat of the sun, tempered even as it was by the refreshing sea-breeze, were 
seated on high, enjoying the noise and bustle ; while the large rooms beneath 
sent forth such clouds of savoury perfumes as told of roast and boiled, pickled 
and preserved, besides spicery and cates that would do honour to an alder- 
manic assembly. Then the machines, employed to convey the company invited 
from various parts of the country, were amazingly curious : one or two car- 
riages of ancient days ; some few gigs ; jaunting cars, under all their classifica- 
tions — the double, the inside, the outside; then the common car “made 
comfortable,” for the more homely, first filled with straw, then a feather-bed, 
covered with that destroyer of time, calico, and taste — a patch quilt. I have 
seen five dames, strange as it may seem, in such a conveyance ; two seated 
next the horse’s tail, partly on the shafts of the car, two in the middle of the 
feather-bed (no bad seat that), and one cross-ways at the bottom ; this unfor- 
tunate is always obliged to hold fast with both hands, for a sudden jerk would 
inevitably dislodge the most ponderous. So they reached our pretty quay of 
Bannow, situated in a district for which commerce ought to do much more 
than it has done ; although our harbour is not a good one for large vesssels, 
it is “elegant” for small craft. The place is very picturesque. Directly 
opposite is the village of Fethard, a corruption of “ Fought-hard ;” so called, 
it is said, because here occurred the first battle between the Anglo-Normans 
and the “ mere Irish,” immediately after the arrival of the former upon the 
soil, of which they subsequently became possessors. One of the earliest 
castles of the invaders still exists — a picturesque ruin. A few miles inland is 
“ Tintern Abbey,” now a modern residence, but once a famous monastic 
institution; where, it is reported, and universally believed, the spirits of the 
murdered monks still take their solemn walk, yearly, on the eve of the anni- 
versary of All-Saints. Overlooking the quay is the old church of Bannow ; and 
still nearer to it are the remains of one of the old square towers, of which the 
followers of Strongbow erected so many in all parts of our country. The 
whole neighbourhood is, indeed, deeply interesting to the historian and the 
antiquarian. But to my story. 

The sailors mixed with the rustic groups, congregated under several awn- 
ings that stretched along the strand, and enjoyed the eagerness shown by the 
untravelled peasantry to inspect the wonders of their barques, which were 
cleaned and trimmed gaily out for the purpose of exhibition. The most 
interesting of all the sights, however, was a black cabin-boy : scarcely any one, 
in Bannow, had ever seen a negro, and the poor little fellow was subjected to 
all manner of inspection ; the old women were for washing and scraping him, 
to see if he could be brought to a “ dacent colour ;” the young ones appeared 
terrified: and Peter the Prophet, after much critical examination, declared 
“ that no good could come of bringing such outlandish things among 
Christians.” 

“ Ally, my dear,” said Paddy Mulvany to his niece, “ what ails ye, that ye 


PETER THE PROPHET. 107 

look so solid ? — come, you and Corry are illegant hands at the jig, and ye must 
both put the best foot foremost to-night, ’cause of the gintry.” 

“I’ll not dance a step this night, uncle, with Cony!” she replied, heartilv 
sick of her resolve, but mistaking obstinacy for firmness ; “ I won’t do it, because 
I said I wouldn’t ; and, for the matter o’ that, he doesn’t want me to — he ’s been 
flirting away this half-hour with Ellen Muccleworth.” 

“ He ’s been doing no such thing, my dear ; I ’ve been watching ye both ; you 
won’t spake to him, and yet ye ixpect him to sit at yer elbow, putting up with 
yer snouting — for what ? I ’ll go bail ye don’t know yerself. It ’s well, pretty 
Alice, I ’m not yer bachelor ; I ’d lave ye to get rid of yer humours as ye could, 
my jewel.” 

So saying, Paddy Mulvany turned on his heels ; tears filled the fine eyes of 
Alice, but she remained obstinate as ever ; and, when Corry danced with Ellen, 
she really believed herself a much injured, insulted little maiden. 

“ I don’t care,” said she to herself — “ I ’ll not sit quiet to please him — I ’ll 
jig it with the very next boy that asks me.” And so she did ; throwing off her 
mantle ; folding her gay kerchief over her head and neck ; and exhibiting her 
pretty figure to the best advantage, in her loose “jacket” of white, bordered 
with muslin ; while her buckled shoes marvellously set off her small feet. 
“ The next boy that asked her,” was no other than handsome Horatio Laverton, 
the mate of the timber vessel ; and Corry had the mortification of seeing that 
Alice danced to perfection, and of hearing such expressions of approbation from 
the surrounding company, as — “ Illegantly danced!” — “Success!” — “Well, in 
all my time, I niver saw so sweet a couple on the flure.” “ Corry, ye ’re bate 
out by the English boy — clane bate — and at the jig too.” “Hurra! — there’s 
a fling ; well, that is dancing !” Then Alice figured in a three-handed reel, 
with the mate and her rival, Ellen, and, certainly, she had the advantage there ; 
for Ellen was pronounced as “ not fit to hould a candle to her.” Yet, as the 
evening waned on, Alice’s bad spirits increased, and even the attentions of the 
handsome Horatio Laverton faded to reconcile her to the reproaches of that 
little, silent, yet powerful monitor within her own bosom. As the moon rose 
slowly over the waters, she remembered that she had been more happy at her 
uncle’s door, with no eye upon her but her lover’s, than she was at that moment, 
walking up and down the pier, with an almost stranger, and listening to so 
much praise that she began to doubt she could deserve it : still she remained 
obstinate. 

“We will make friends to-morrow,” said she to herself; and, as she stood 
leaning on handsome Horatio Laverton’s arm, looking toward the little island 
of Bannow, Corry and her uncle came on the pier. She saw, in a moment, that 
her lover had taken too much whiskey-punch, and this reminded her that he had 
broken a promise he had made her the preceding evening. She forgot how she 
had acted herself ; and, when Corry good-humouredly spoke to her, turned away, 
curled up her nose, and replied not. 


108 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


“ I am glad to find, Alice,” he said, “ that you like the smell of tar better than 
that of whiskey.” This remark was only noticed by the little nose mounting still 
higher ; but the sailor immediately replied : 

“ I suppose, Mister Irishman, the young lady, may like what she chooses.” 

Corry, hot, hasty, and rapid, was nothing loath to answer; but Paddy Mul- 
vany interfered immediately. 

“ Mister mate — that young lady as you are so civil as to call her, is my niece 
and, moreover, engaged to that young man ; some tiff came betwixt them this 
morning, but it ’ll blow off, only I ’m sorry my eldest brother’s child should 
act so flirty a part. Come, you two shake hands ; sure we ought all to be glad 
of the strangers who will bring, not only plenty, but peace, to our strand.” The 
young men shook hands, and Paddy Mulvany placed his niece’s arm within 
his, and whispered that it was time to go home. 

“ What do you think of our pier and harbour ?” inquired Corry of the mate. 

“ It’s nicely suited for trade,” replied the sailor, “ and the little island, opposite, 
shelters it from the nor’-west wind. I ’ll try and swim to that spot to-morrow 
morning ; though, if I can do it, I suppose I ’m the only one in the country 
could ; it ’s a long stretch.” 

“ It ’s a good swim for sartin, but I ’d do it as easy as kiss my hand — clothes 
and all, this minute, with all the ease in life.” 

“ Well, that ’s good, faith ! — now, do you expect me to believe that ? Why, 
I ’d bet ye a gallon of stiff grog ye ’d founder before ye ’d get half way.” 

“ Done.” 

“ Done.” 

“ Done and done ’s enough betwixt us two at any time, and so here goes, 
clothes and all, excepting coat and shoes.” 

“ What are ye after, Corry ?” inquired Paddy Mulvany, seeing him taking off 
his coat. 

“ Going to swim to the island for a small taste of a wager ; this gentleman 
says, though he’s a seafaring man, it ’s impossible ; so I ’m jist going to show him 
the differ, for the honour of ould Ireland ; I’m no fresh-water rat, to fear a 
ducking in the brine — here goes !’ 

Whenever a true-born Patlander meditates a dashing exploit, it is for the 
honour of " ould Ireland and many of Corry’s friends, heedless of the conse- 
quence, cheered him to the undertaking. Paddy expostulated ; but the voice of 
the thoughtless is always loud ; his reasonings were not heard. 

“ What ! strike a bet to an Englishman 1 — a bet mus’nt be broken.” 

“ But I say it must and shall,” said Paddy, “ he ’s not in a fit state to swim ; 
put on your coat, Corry ; here ’s Ally will ax you not to go.” 

“ Will she ?” exclaimed Corry ; “ if she does, I ’ll give it up — pay the grog ; 
and that ’s more than I ’d do for any man, woman, or child, barring herself.” 

“ Alice,” said her uncle, in an under-tone, “ Alice, for the love of God, ax 
him not to go ; as sure as ye’re alive some harm ’ll happen to him.” 

“ I don’t care,” replied the sulky beauty. 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


109 

Corry heard the words. “ You don’t care, Alice ; — now here goes in earnest !” 
and he sprang off the pier into the ocean. Alice flew to the spot, and ejaculated, 
“ Dear Corry !” — but it was too late. “ I knew the tide would be over strong,” 
exclaimed Mulvany ; “ and so much whiskey !” 

“ By George, he ’s doing it nobly !” said the Englishman. 

“ Ould Ireland for ever !” shouted the peasants. Paddy knew well that the 
attempt was highly dangerous ; he had often seen Cornelius swim, and perceived 
the difference now. Without uttering a sentence, he jumped from the pier to 
the deck of the nearest vessel, then dropped into a little boat that was alongside, 
which was quickly unmoored, and, seizing the oars, tacked after his young friend. 
This was the work of a moment, and one of the English sailors observed — 

“ I say, who ’d ha’ thought that yon old fresh-water chap could have slipped 
that craft off so nimbly ?” 

It was one of the clearest evenings that ever beamed out of the heavens ; the 
moon had risen up an unclouded sky ; the waters reflected the “ night’s fair 
queen,” and the little twinkling stars, in its clear blue bosom. The island may 
be somewhat more than an Irish mile from the pier, and the efforts Corry made 
to gain it were distinctly visible ; but the eddy near the distant shore was very 
strong. As there were many jutting crags that intercepted the even flowing of 
the tide, Paddy Mulvany did not follow in the exact track, but kept to the right 
of Corry ; Alice stood on the pier in breathless anxiety ; and that feeling was 
increased to one of indescribable agony, when she heard the mate exclaim, 
“ Good God ! — sure it can’t be ! — yes, the current — he ’s struggling ! as I hope 
to be saved, he ’s gone down l” The crowd now pressed forward to the end of 
the pier. Stoutly did Mulvany try to tack his boat so as to gain the drowning man; 
but, unfortunately, she struck upon a sand bank, and there was no time to disen- 
gage her ; he, therefore, relinquished the oars, and plunged into the sea. By 
this time Corry had risen ; but before his friend reached him he had again disap- 
peared. One loud, long shriek of agony drew the attention of the spectators, 
for a moment, to the land ; it was Corry’s aged, widowed mother : she rushed 
fearfully along the quay, exclaiming, “ My boy — my boy! — my blessed boy ! 
It was with difficulty she was restrained from casting herself into the waters ; 
her eye fixed on Alice, and she said, in a tone between bitterness and affection, 
“ Ally, Ally ! — why did ye let him go ?” 

Mulvany had watched 'the moment for Corry’s rising, and “ treaded the 
water,” while he seized him by the collar, so as to prevent the possibility of 
grappling. Instead of the exertion he expected, he was much horrified to find 
the poor fellow apparently a motionless corpse; and, when he placed him in the 
boat, no symptom of lingering life was manifested. A loud shout from the 
shore told, plainly, how sincerely the people rejoiced in what they considered 
the success of Mulvany’s exertions. Alice and Corry’s mother rushed into 
each other’s arms, tremblingly awaiting the arrival of the boat ; but it is quite 
impossible to describe what followed, when the wet and senseless form of the 
beloved of their hearts was laid on the strand. 


110 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


One in the crowd tried to soothe the wild grief of Alice. “ Asy, asy, dear 
sure it’s God’s will!” She turned towards the man who had spoken, ana 
pointed to the body; then, with the action of frenzy, shook the pale hand, 
shrieking, “ Corry, oh, Corry, dear! — why won’t ye wake? Oh, wake, wake! 
’t is I that ask it !” and the unhappy girl fell senseless on the bosom of him she 
had dearly loved. The noise roused the mother, who had been wiping off the 
chill damp from her son’s forehead ; — her sorrow “ was too deep for tears.” “ I 
tell ye, Alice, he ’s dead !” she murmured, when the girl’s lament broke upon her 
ear, “ and will never w r ake again !” She bent over him, while her hand rested 
on his ashy brow, and muttered, unconscious of the presence of strangers, “ You 
were a good son, agra ! — the green plant of the desert. How like his father he 
is now, whin I saw him last — jist before they put him in the could grave, in the 
morning of his days — dead — dead — ” 

“ My good woman,” said the captain of the vessel, pushing through the 
crowd, “ it is impossible that such a strong, fine fellow as that, could be smo- 
thered, in so short a time, by a mere mouthful of salt water ; come, my hearties, 
lend a hand, and haul him on board ; there ’s hot water, and stoves, and every 
convenience, and it won’t be the first time we brought a lad to life after a 
ducking !” The old woman looked earnestly in his face, and, clasping her hands, 
faintly articulated, “ Life — to life ! God’s blessing ! — life — life !” — and accom- 
panied the kind-hearted Englishman. 

At any other time, the Irish would have strenuously exerted themselves to 
prevent the interference of the English about “ death consarns but the cap- 
tain’s kind manner, and Mr. Townsend’s going on board, silenced all their 
scruples. Paddy Mulvany, also, followed, supporting his niece, whose youthful 
feelings rebounded at the prospect of Corry’s recovery. As Paddy was step- 
ping on board, some one pulled his sleeve, and the ominous face of “ Peter the 
Prophet,” popped over his shoulder. 

“I just wanted to remind you, Paddy Mulvany, that I tould ye no good 
would come of* the new quay ; you ’ll just please to remember, Paddy Mul- 
vany — ” 

Paddy turned full on him — “ Ye ill-looking, croaking, monej'-making, ould 
vagabond, if I catch yer wizen raven-face within tin yards of me or mine, either 
in town or country, I ’ll just give ye the finish— and here ’s the beginning !” 

The drover made a blow at Mister Peter, which, if it had arrived at its des- 
tination, would have silenced his prognostication for a time ; but he had wisely 
retreated, and ever afterwards kept the other side of the road when he espied 
Paddy's figure approaching. 

The efforts of the English crew were successful ; and the next morning a 
group of three no —four, passed up the green lane, where the birds were sing- 
ing, and the flowers blossoming, as sweetly as on the past evening. 

An old woman could hardly be said to be in the advance, so closely did she 
keep, and so often did she turn back to look upon the party of three, who filled 
up the pathway. A young man, exceedingly pale, was in the centre, and lie 


PETER THE PROPHET. 


Ill 

derived support and happiness from those on whom he leant. The girl was 
delicate to look upon, and the tear-drop glittered in her eye, even when the 
pale youth gazed upon her with looks of unspeakable affection. His hand lay, 
but could hardly be said to lean, upon her fairy arm ; while his companion, on 
the other side, had enough to sustain. 

Alice became a reformed flirt ; and, although she never quite conquered her 
love for ingeniously tormenting, yet did she conquer her obstinacy, and declare 
unqualified approbation of the white cow. — I cannot say so much for Peter, 
who continues to prognosticate, after his old fashion, and bitterly complains that 
a prophet hath no honour in his own land. 




JACK THE SHRIMP. 


IGHT or ten years ago there lived, in the neighbour- 
hood of Bannow, a long, lean, solitary man, known 
by no other appellation, that ever I heard of, than that 
of “ Jack the Shrimp.” He was a wild, desolate look- 
ing creature ; black, lank hair fell over his face and 
shoulders, and either rested in straight lines on his pale, 
jj follow cheeks, or waved gloomily in the passing 

IIiMIJ ^ reeze . hj s e y es we re deep-set and dark ; and there 
was something almost mysterious in his deportment. 
Some persons imagined him to be an idiot ; but others, 
who knew Jack better, asserted that his intellects were 
of a superior order; however, as few enjoyed the 
privilege of his acquaintance, the former opinion pre- 
vailed. Jack could be found everywhere, except in a 
dwelling house ; he had a singular antipathy to dry or 
sheltered abodes, and never appeared at home except 
5 when on the rocky sea-shore, scrambling up the cliffs, 
or, in clear weather, looking out for the scattered 
vessels that passed into Waterford harbour. Nobody seemed to know how he 
came to our isolated neighbourhood ; his first appearance had created a good 

( 112 ) 



JACK THE SHRIMP. 


113 

aeal of village gossip, but that had gone by, and his gentle and kindly manner 
endeared him to the peasantry : the affectionate greeting of “ God save ye !”— - 
“ God save ye kindly !”• — was frequently exchanged between the solitary shrimp- 
gatherer (for such was Jack’s ostensible employment), and the merry “ boys and 
girls,” who, at all seasons, collect sea-weed, and burn it into kelp, on the sea- 
shore. Often have I seen him in the early morning, at low water, his bare, lank 
legs tramping over the moist sand, or midway in the rippling wave ; his pole, 
some six feet long — the net full of shrimps at one end, and the heavy hook at the 
other, balancing it over one shoulder — while from the opposite were suspended 
two wicker-baskets, frequently filled with lobsters, or smaller shell-fish, which he 
contrived to hook out of their holes with extraordinary dexterity. The sole 
companion of his rambles was a little, black, — I really know not what to call it 
so as to distinguish its peculiar tribe, but it may be sufficient to state that it 
was a black, ugly dog, who, by way of economy, usually walked upon three 
legs, partly blind, and, like its master, lonely in its habits, and shy in its 
demeanour. This animal, who, appropriately enough answered to the name 
of Crab, was the means of my introduction to its taciturn lord. Even in 
childhood I was devotedly attached to the sea ; somewhat amphibious — fond, 
when I dared, of getting off my shoes and stockings, and dabbling in the fairy 
pools which the receding ocean left in the hollow clefts of the rocks; and 
fonder still of chasing the waves as they rolled along the sloping beach. My 
affection for this dangerous amusement was so well known, that I was never 
permitted to go to the strand, although it was considerably within a mile of 
our house, unattended by an old, steady dependent of the family, Nelly Parrell 
by name, who was entrusted with the care of all the young folk in the country 
on their sea-side excursions. But there was another companion who loved to 
be with me — my noble favourite, Neptune, a tall, stately Newfoundland dog, 
thoughtful and sagacious. It was not to be supposed that so high-born an 
animal would condescend to associate with a low-bred tyke ; and no mark of 
recognition, that^ever I perceived, passed between him and Crab, any more 
than between myself and the shrimp-gatherer, who, I dare say, thought a 
noisy, laughing girl of ten, a sad disturber of his solitude. One morning > 
during spring-tide, having just bathed, I had quitted the box to take my 
accustomed stroll along the shore ; when, on a rock, a considerable distance 
from land, and which the inflowing rapid waves were covering fast, I saw and 
heard poor Crab in evident distress: the fact was, that part of his master’s 
tackle wanted some alteration ; and Jack, forgetting it was spring-tide, had 
placed his lobster-baskets on a high rock, and directed his dog to watch them 
until his return from the village ; Crab would not desert his trust, and to save 
him appeared impossible, even to his master, who had just descended the 
cliffs, as the intermediate waters became deep and dangerous. I never saw 
any man in greater agony than Jack on this occasion ; repeatedly did he call 
to the faithful animal — yet it would not quit the spot. Neptune was never 
particularly quick ; but, when he did comprehend, he was prompt in doing all 
15 


114 


JACK THE SHRIMP. 


things for the best ; suddenly he understood the entire matter, plunged fear 
lessly among the waves, and soon returned, bearing Crab, between his teeth 
to the shore ; not content with this exploit, he twice re-entered, and brought 
the baskets to the feet of the grateful man of shrimps. I do believe the pool 
fellow would, to use his own words, at the moment, have walked “ barefoot to 
Jericho, to sarve me or mine.” He snatched the dripping animal to his bosom, 
and, amongst other endearing epithets, called it his only friend. Ever after, 
Jack and I were intimate acquaintances ; not so Neptune and the black cur: 
the latter never forgot his obligations ; but Neptune only returned the humble 
caresses of the little creature by a slight movement of his stately tail, or a 
casting down of his small dark eye, as well as to say, “ I see you !” 

Still there was something about “ Jack the Shrimp,” I, notwithstanding my 
most persevering curiosity, could never make out ; his mornings, from the 
earliest dawn, in fair or foul weather, were employed in catching the unwary 
fish ; at mid-day he attended his several customers, and in the evenings he again 
repaired to his haunts among the wild birds, and amid the ocean spray: his 
general place of repose was a hollow rock, called the Otter’s-Hole ; and there 
he used to eat his lonely meal, and share his straw bed, at night, with his faithful 
dog. I saw him one morning, as usual, poking after shrimps, and was struck by 
the anxiety and energy of his movements ; notwithstanding his seeming employ- 
ment, he was intensely watching every sail that appeared on the blue waters : 
when he saw me, he rapidly approached. 

“ The top of the morning to ye, young lady, and may every sunrise increase 
yer happiness !” 

“Thank ye, Jack; have you caught many shrimps this morning?” 

“ Yarra no, my lannan — sorra a many. — Ye wouldn’t have much company at 
the big house to-day ?” 

“ I believe we expect some friends.” 

“ Ye wouldn’t know their names?” he inquired, looking at me, while his sunken 
eyes sparkled with feelings which I could not understand. 

“Some, Jack, I know — Mr. Amble, and Mr. Cawthorne, and Father Mike, 
and the rector.” 

“ Any of the red-coat officers from Duncannon, agra ?” 

“ Not that I know of.” 

“ Are you sure ?” he continued, peering earnestly into my face ; “ ye wouldn’t, 
sure ye wouldn’t, tell a lie to poor ould Jack, Miss, darlint, — you, whom he’d go 
tin pilgrimages to sarve, if ye were to die to-morrow — you, who have so often 
spoken kindly to him, when yer voice fell on his ear like the song of a mermaid 
— sure ye wouldn’t desave me, mavourneen /” 

“ Indeed, Jack, there is no reason to deceive you on the subject — the matter 
cannot concern you ; but, to make your mind perfectly easy, I will ask the house- 
keeper ; she knows who are expected, and I will let you know when you bring 
the lobsters to the house.” 

“God bless ye, and God help yer innocent head! — sure d’ye think I’m such 


JACK THE SHRIMP. 115 

an ould fool entirely as to be bothering myself about what ’s no business of mine ? 
— may-be, like the rest, ye think me a natural ?” 

His lip curled in bitter scorn as he uttered the last sentence, and his eyes 
grew brightly dark under the shadows of his beetle brows. After a moment’s 
pause he continued, “ Ax the master himself, dear — ax the master if any of 
the officers are to be wid ye ; the housekeeper won’t know — that she won’t ; 
just ax the master who’s to dine wid ye to-day, particular about the officers ; — 
but don't, Miss, darlint, don’t say I bid ye ; ye don’t know what harm might 
come of it, if ye did — it might cost me my life ; besides, it would demean ye to 
turn informer. Now, Miss, machree, — young as ye are, ye ’re the only one 
about the big house I ’d trust wid that ; and so God be wid ye, I depind on your 
honour.” I was ten years old, and it was a glorious thing to think that a 
secret (although I hardly knew in what the secret consisted), was in my keep- 
ing, and it was still more glorious to be told that my honour was depended on. 
Jack was, moreover, a favourite with the household, and I had never been for- 
bidden to speak to him. Grandmamma and mamma were, I knew, busied with 
the housekeeper in the preparation of jellies and pasties, in the manufacture of 
which, adhering to the fashion of the good old times, they themselves assisted, 
at those periods of bustle and confusion in country-houses called company-days. 
I was consequently aware that I should hardly see them until dressed for the 
drawing-room. During my conversation with Jack, my biped attendant, Nelly 
Parrell, had been busily employed in packing up my bathing-dress, and locking 
“ the box so she knew nothing of Jack’s anxiety. I saw the old man watch 
me attentively, until I ascended the upper cliff on my way home, and then he 
returned to his occupation. I did not fail to ask my grandfather, at the break- 
fast-table, if he expected any of the officers from Duncannon to dinner, that 
day 'l The kind man laid down “ the Waterford Chronicle,” which he was perus- 
ing, and, smiling one of those sweet and playful smiles that tell, more than 
words can do, of peace and cheerfulness, inquired, in his turn, if “ my head was 
beginning to think about officers already ?” I was old enough to blush at this, 
but returned to my point, and was told that none had been invited. Soon 
after, I saw Jack, and little Crab, the one striding, the other trotting, down the 
avenue ; as he passed the open casement he stopped, and I told him that grand- 
papa did not expect any of the Duncannon officers; the old man crossed his 
forehead, and muttered — as he reverently bowed, and passed to the kitchen 
offices — « May heaven be yer bed at the last, and may ye niver know either 
sin or sorrow !” 

Poor Jack ! I have often since thought of his benediction. Dinner was at 
last over, and dessert fairly placed upon the table, when horses’ feet were heard 
clattering in the court-yard; and, in a few seconds, the servant announced 
the captain of the detachment of a regiment then quartered at Duncannon ; a 
gentleman who accompanied him, but who was not announced, entered at the 
same time; he was a gigantic, gloomy, harsh-looking man; and when the ser- 
vant retired, the officer introduced him as Mr. Loffont, the new chief of the 


] 16 


JACK THE SHRIMP. 


Fethard and Duncannon police. This man was universally disliked in the 
country, and Captain Gore knew it well ; he, in some measure, apologized for 
the intrusion of both, by stating he had been that morning called upon, by Mr 
Loflont, to give assistance to the police in a rencontre with the smugglers, 
which was that night expected on our side the coast: this was, I believe 
unwelcome intelligence to all, but to none more than myself; an undefined dread 
of some evil that might happen to my poor friend, the shrimp-gatherer, took 
possession of my mind ; and, to the astonishment of my good grandmother, even 
my strawberries were untasted. I have since learned that, when the ladies with- 
drew, Captain Gore informed the company that he expected some of his men 
to meet them at the termination of our oak belting ; and, he added, “ he was 
convinced Mr. Herriott would render every assistance to the king’s servants in 
such a cause.” Mr. Herriott was peaceably inclined, and only agreed to go to 
the beach with the soldiers, because he thought it likely he might act as a media- 
tor between the parties. Well do I remember the breathless anxiety with which 
I watched for his passing through the entrance-hall, for I longed to speak to him 
— but it was useless ; he did not come out till near midnight, and then he was 
surrounded by gentlemen, who whispered in an under-tone ; at last, with a 
palpitating heart, I heard the old butler ordered to bring the long double- 
barrelled gun. The company departed, and I seated myself in the nursery 
window, which overlooked the beautiful plantations, and the distant sea that was 
tranquilly reposing in the beams of the full moon. 

Slowly and stealthily did the party proceed to the shore ; and they stole in 
silence, and in safety, upon the unfortunate smugglers, who were, at the time, 
landing their cargo at the entrance to the Otter’s-hole. A few peasants 
were waiting, with empty cars, to convey away their purchases ; and the gang 
was, evidently, unprepared for the attack; neither party, however, wanted 
courage; and they fought, man to man, with desperate resolution. Loffont 
was forerflost in the fray; youth, age, and manhood alike felt the overpowering 
force of his muscular arm, or the unerring ball of his pistol. Silently and 
darkly did he fight, more like a destroying spirit than a mortal man. At 
length, in the midst of a combat that had given him more than usual trouble, 
for he had engaged with a young and daring antagonist, he was arrested by a 
harsh, growling voice, like the deep but murmured anger of an African lion ; 
and his arm was grasped by long, bony fingers, that seemed the outcasts of the 
grave. “ And you ’re here ! — you, who crushed my brave, my eldest boy ; who 
seduced, from her innocent home, my Kathleen — my daughter — my dear, dear 
girl ; — you, who drove us to wandering and want ! Stand back, James — drop 
yer hoult of my only living child, ye hell-fiend !” continued the agonized old 
man, as he shook the huge frame of Loffont, even as a willow-wand ; “ once 
before, when my other boy was murdered, I struggled with ye for his life, 
and ye cast me from ye, as an ould tree: — but now!” — his eyes glared fear- 
fully upon his victim, and, for a moment, smugglers and soldiers remained silent 
and motionless. Loffont trembled in every limb ; he felt as if his hour was 


JACK THE SHRIMP. 


117 

come, and, turning from the shrimp-gatherer, he said, “ Pass on, John Doherty ; 
enough of your, blood is already on my head.” The old man replied not, but 
closed upon the revenue-officer. Long and desperate was the struggle— hand 
to hand, foot to foot — until, as they neared the overhanging edge of the pre- 
cipitous cliff, the shrimp-gatherer grappled the throat of his adversary ; one step 
more — and both went crashing against the pointed rocks, until the deep heavy 
splash in the ocean announced that the contest w r as over. 

Speedy relief was afforded, and they were both dragged out of the water, 
still clasped, as in the death-struggle ! Loffont, his harsh and demon-like 
features blackened and swollen by suffocation, was indeed a corpse ; and, 
although Doherty was living, and in full possession of his faculties, it was 
evident his spirit was on the wing. Still did he grasp his antagonist’s throat ; 
and, even when besought by my grandfather to relax his hold, he raised him- 
self slowly on his elbow, and turned a steady gaze upon the features of one he 
had hated even unto death. His son knelt by his side, his heart full, almost 
to bursting. In the meantime, the contest between the soldiery and the people 
was renewed, and every inch of cliff vigorously disputed. 

“James,” said the dying man, as his glazed eye followed the bloody contest, 
upon which the full moon cast her bright and tranquil beams — M James — the 
boat — the boat — gain the ship ! My murdered children now can rest in their 
graves — their murderer is punished.” 

“ Jack,” interrupted the kind-hearted gentleman, “ for God’s sake, think of the 
few moments you have to live — think of where you are going.” 

“ Ay, sir, if God would spare me to 1 make my soul, now I might think and 
pray to him ; — but before — could I think of any but them who are in heaven ? 
Now God — God have mercy on a poor sinful man ! His hands were clenched 
in prayer, when a loud shout from the peasantry, which was repeated by a 
thousand echoes along the rocky shore, announced that they had beaten their 
opponents fairly off; the old man started — waved his hands wildly over his 
head, as in triumph — fell back — and expired on his son’s bosom. 

The smugglers escaped to the vessel, and the youth bore off to it the dead 
body of his father. The ship’s crew and the peasantry disappeared, as if by 
magic, carrying with them as much of the brandy and tobacco as had been 
landed, for they knew that the police would shortly return with a reinforcement ; 
and in one or two moments Mr. Herriott found himself alone with the corpse of 
Loffont, on the wild sea-shore ; — not quite alone, I should say ; the dog of the 
shrimp-gatherer, poor Crab, came smelling to the strand where his master’s 
body had lain, raised his little voice in weak and pitiful howlings to the receding 
barque, and finally laid himself down at the feet of the watchful Neptune, who 
had ne ver deserted his master’s side. From that hour, the noble animal became 
the protector of the low-born cur — never suffering him to receive either insult 
or injury. 

The body of the wretched Loffont, who had met with so shocking a death, 
was conveyed to our house; it was buried — but few attended the funeral. 


118 


JACK THE SHRIMP. 


which in Ireland is always a mark of disrespect. It was not to be wondered 
at, for the history of poor Jack became generally known : he had once a home, 
and all the joys which home can give; — a wife, two sons, and one lovely 
daughter, the pride of her father’s life, and of her native village. She was 
seduced by LofFont, under the promise of honourable union — but she could 
not survive her disgrace — her heart broke ! She was found, one morning, a 
stiffened corpse, at her father’s door, with a snow-shroud for her covering, and 
the cold ice of December for her bed. Then it was that her mother quietly 
and calmly laid down and died; the fountain of her tears had dried — her 
heart withered within her bosom. 

The husband and father, thus rendered wild and desolate, became a man of 
desperate fortunes, and swore that nothing but blood should wash out the 
memory of his daughter’s shame. He joined a party of smugglers, with his 
eldest boy, whom, in an engagement with the police, he saw shot and stabbed by 
the same hand that had brought sin and death to his once happy dwelling. He 
was himself so much injured in this engagement, as to be unable to remain at 
sea ; so he wandered along the sea-shore, watching the movements of the officers 
stationed on the preventive service, and directing those of the smuggling vessel 
in which his younger son had embarked. This will account for the great anxiety 
he had manifested to ascertain who was to dine at our house on that eventful 
day — dreading, doubtless, that the officers were on the lookout for the expected 
ship. He could not have known that Loffont was so near his usual haunts ; for 
he would have stopped at nothing to shed his blood. 

#**###*# 

This story was brought to my remembrance, many years afterwards, wffien I 
visited the old churchyard of Bannow, in which the remains of that “ bad man” 
were interred. The church is of very remote antiquity, and it overlooks a 
singular scene — the “ Irish Herculaneum” — a town buried beneath the sand. 
In the interior, among broken walls, are the remains of several tombs, which 
retain abundant evidence of “ long-ago magnificence” — sculptured slabs and 
stone coffins ; and among them are monuments to the memory of the good, and 
upright, and benevolent — of, comparatively, yesterday. To me the spot is sacred ; 
it contains the ashes of nearly all my relatives and friends. 

Alas ! if, in after life, we revisit the scenes of our childhood, where shall we 
look for those who are dear to our hearts and memories ? In the churchyard ! 

The grave of Loffont, to which my story has reference — rather than to those 
of characters far opposite — was pointed out to me by the widow Parrell — my 
old bathing-woman — as one upon which, for a long time, “grass would not grow.” 
“ I ’ve seen,” she said, “ many a fine funeral within these ancient walls : I 
remember that of the ould Master of Graige House ; and well I mind your own 
grandmother’s-the heavens be her bed ! And the hundreds that followed her, 
though an Englishwoman, to her grave — the hundreds ! besides three priests, 
and three ministers; and then her husband! And beautiful are the words he 
had carved upon that square flat tomb, to her memory; then the ould lady, his 


JACK THE SHRIMP. 


119 


sister, all in the same big vault — ah, yah ! — the fine place went into other hands ; 
and, if it was to pass, sure, better relations and neighbours than strangers — the 
old name reigns over it again — the old stock, still! — Wisha! wisha!” she 
exclaimed, rubbing her finger across her sallow brow, and then plucking tufts 
of maiden hair out of the old walls ; — “ it bothers one to think how often that 
tomb has been opened! — Well, the Lord above grant it may not be opened for 
a very long time. ,, When I was young, I took great delight in wandering about 
these old tombs ; and, even when LofFont was killed, I remember I ’d as soon go 
into a graveyard, as into a flower-garden. “ Death seems so far off then, that 
it ’s no trouble to think of it — it ’s like the wave we see rolling betwixt the two 
Keeroes : we never heed its size till it ’s almost at the shore ; but now, I don’t 
care if I never cross the walls — barring to look at that tomb of ould French — 
that ’s a consolation — a hundred and forty years is on the tomb — more says it ’s 
a hundred and four, but I don’t see why a body mayn’t as well live to be the one 
as the other.” The poor woman seemed to derive consolation from this reflec- 
tion, and added, “ What a pity it was that Jack the Shrimp died so soon ! he ’d 
be sure to have made ould bones, and had a fine funeral if he ’d only have waited 
for it, as he might, and no harm.” Many stories she told me of those who lie 
beneath that green turf; and now, she herself rests there — one of the last who, 
in her lifetime, companioned poor Jack the Shrimp. 








N a tranquil evening, in the sweet summer-month of 
June, a lady of no ordinary appearance sat at an open 
casement of many-coloured glass, and overlooked a 
wild, but singularly beautiful, country. From the 
window, a flight of steep stone steps led to a narrow 
terrace, that, in former times, had been carefully 
guarded by high parapets of rudely-carved granite; 
but they had fallen to decay, and lay in mouldering 
heaps on the shrubby bank, which ran almost perpen- 
dicularly to a rapid stream that danced like a sunny 
spirit through the green meadows, dotted and animated 
with sheep and their sportive lambs. In the distance, 
rude and rugged mountains towered in native dignity, 
“ high in air,” their grim and sterile appearance form- 
ing an extraordinary, but not unpleasing, contrast to 
the pure and happy-looking valley at their base, where, 

( 120 ) 



THE LAST OF THE LINE. 


121 

however, a few dingy peasant-cottages lay thinly scattered, injuring, rather 
than enlivening, a scene that nature had done much to adorn, and man nothing 
to preserve. Half way up the nearest mountain, a little chapel; dedicated to 
“ our Lady of Grace,” hung, like a wren’s nest, on what seemed a point of rock ; 
but even its rustic cross was invisible from the antique casement. Often and 
anxiously did the lady watch the distant figures who trod the hill-side towards 
the holy place, to perform some act of penance or devotion. 

It was impossible to look on that interesting woman without affection ; one 
might have almost thought her destined — 

“ To come like truth, and disappear like dreams.” 

Though she was young, there was much of the dignity of silent sorrow in her 
aspect ; and it was difficult to converse with her, without feeling her influence, 
— not to overpower, but to soften. Her form was slight, but rounded to the 
most perfect symmetry, and an extraordinary quantity of hair, black as the 
raven’s wing, was braided, somewhat after the fashion of other lands, over a 
high and well-formed brow ; although, such was the style of the time, she wore 
no head-dress, except what nature had bestowed ; a golden rosary, and cross of 
the same metal, gemmed with many precious jewels, hung over a harp-stand of 
antique workmanship ; a few of the strings of the harp were broken, and a pile 
of richly-bound music gave no token of being often disturbed. Silken Ottomans, 
gilded vases, fresh-gathered flowers, and a long embroidered sofa, filled up, 
almost to crowding, the small apartment. In a little recess, opposite the window, 
a child’s couch was fitted with much taste and care ; the hangings were of blue 
damask, curiously inwrought with silver, such as the nuns in France and Flanders 
delight to emboss ; there was also a loose coverlet of the same material, and a 
tasseled oblong cushion at either end. I have said that the lady was seated at 
the casement ; sometimes she pressed her small white fingers to her brow, and 
then passed them over its rounded surface, as if to dispel, by that simple move- 
ment, thoughts, “ the unbidden guests of anxious hours — but still it was only 
for a moment her gaze was turned from her best treasure, her only child ; her 
eye followed it as, in its nurse’s arms, it enjoyed the evening breeze that played 
amid its light and clustering hair ; the baby had blue eyes and a fair skin ; and 
if it sometimes, in the infantine seriousness that passed as airy shadows over a 
smiling landscape, resembled its mother, now, as it laughed and shouted, in 
broken accents, “ Mamma ! mamma !” she thought how like its father it spoke 
and looked. Clavis Abbey — as the strange mixture of ancient and modern 
building, inhabited by the household of Sir John Clavis, was called — was wflsely 
situated. The monks of old always choose happily for their monasteries ; the 
sites of their ruined aisles tell of the good taste, as well as good sense, of their 
projectors. Hill, wood, and water, were even in their neighbourhood, and the 
red deer and salmon were always near, to contribute to their repast. 

But the fair possessions had, nearly two centuries Fefore our tale com- 
mences, passed from the hands of holy Mother Church. The marvellous tale 
16 


122 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 


of its exchange of masters is still often repeated, and always credited ; it is 
said and believed that the stream, which runs through the valley I have 
described, is, every midsummer-night, of a deep-red hue, in mysterious com- 
memoration of the massacre of the priests of that abbey, which took place 
as late as the Elizabethan reign. Certain it is that the projector of such 
indiscriminate slaughter never reaped the rich harvest he anticipated ; for, 
unable from severe illness to visit the court of the maiden queen, he despatched 
his son’s tutor on the mission, with communications of the services he had 
rendered to the state, and a petition for a grant of the lands he had rescued 
from “ popery.” The tutor, however, made himself so agreeable to the royal 
lady, that she either was, or affected to be, severely angered by the unnecessary 
effusion of blood ; and, so far from approving, testified her displeasure, and 
bestowed the fair lands of the murdered monks upon Oliver Clavis, the false, 
but handsome, accessary of the priest-slayer. But no family could take pos- 
session of consecrated ground in Ireland, without falling under the ban of 
both church and people ; and, notwithstanding the bland and liberal conduct of 
the new owner of the estate, then called Clavis Abbey, Oliver lived and died 
unpopular. Tradition says that none of the heirs male of the family ever 
departed peaceably in their beds, and much learned and unlearned lore is still 
extant upon the subject. 

Somewhat about the year 1782, Sir John Clavis entered upon his title 
and property, in consequence of the sudden demise of his father, Sir Henry, 
who was drowned on a moonshiny night, when the air and the sea were calm, 
and he was returning from an excursion to one of those fairy islands that at 
once beautify and render dangerous the Irish coast. The people who accom- 
panied him, on that last day of his existence, say that he had been in unusual 
health and spirits during the morning, and had fished, and sung, and drank as 
usual — that as the night advanced he became reserved and gloomy, and as they 
neared the coast, insisted on taking the helm — that, suddenly yielding the 
guidance of his little vessel, he sprang overboard — that immediately the crew 
crowded to save him, but a black cloud descended on the waters, and hid his 
form from their eyes, and it was not until the boat had driven an entire mile 
(as well as they could calculate) from the spot, they were enabled to behold 
the sea and the sky. Some laughed, some surmised, but many credited the 
tale ; for superstition had hardly, at that period, resigned any of her strongholds ; 
and the peasantry to* this day, believe that Sir Henry Clavis acted under the 
influence of a spirit-guide, that had lured him to sudden death, conformably 
with the old prophecy — 

“ The party shall fail by Clavis led, 

And none of the name shall die in their bed.” 

Sir John had just completed his college course when he was called upon 
to support the honours of his house and name. At Trinity he was considered 
more as an amiable, gentlemanly young man, than an esprit fort , or one likely 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 


123 


to lead in public life. At that period the college lads were a very different 
set of youths from what they are at present. The rude but generous hospi- 
tality, the thoughtless daring, the angry politics, the feudal feeling, that charac- 
terized the gentry of the time, were not likely to send forth subjects submissive 
to college rule ; and the citizens of Dublin were too often insulted and aggrieved 
by the insolent aristocratic airs of unfledged boys, ripe for mischief, who, 
half in earnest, half in jest, sported with their comforts, and often with their 
lives. Party feeling, also, ran (as unhappily there it always does) to a dreadful 
height ; and the young baronet, whose father had invariably drank “ The 
Glorious Memory,” and “ Protestant Ascendancy,” every day after dinner, was 
frequently called upon to defend or support his party, although he invariably 
declared that as yet he was of none — that he must wait to make up his mind, 
(fee. &c. It must be confessed that this extraordinary irresolution, at such a 
period, was more the effect of constitutional apathy than of reflection ; he had 
a good deal of the consciousness of birth and wealth about him, but he 
disliked either mental or bodily exertion. As an only child, he had suffered 
nothing like contradiction; and had he horsewhipped and abused his servants 
(when at the age of twelve, he sported two of his own racers at the Curragh 
of Kildare), instead of speaking to them as fellow-creatures in a mild and 
kindly voice, it would have elicited no rebuke from his father, who secretly 
regretted that the youth was neither likely to become a five-bottle man, a 
staunch Orangeman, nor a member of Parliament — the only three things he 
considered worth living for. 

The young baronet never could have resolved upon visiting the Continent 
— an exploit he had long talked of— but that an anticipated general election 
frightened him away, as he would certainly, if at home, have been expected 
to offer himself as a candidate, and make speeches. He hated trouble, and of 
the two exertions chose the least — committed his affairs, for twelve calendar 
months, to the management of Denny Dacey, his nurse’s son, who had acted, 
satisfactorily, as steward, since the second childhood of the old and respected 
man who had for sixty years filled the situation ; and left the Abbey, attended 
by only two servants and one travelling-carriage. This was a matter of sur- 
prise and conversation to many, more particularly as Sir Henry and his neigh- 
bour, Mr. Dorncliff, a Cromwellian settler, had arranged that their children 
should be united, when of sufficient age. Miss Dorncliff was handsome, and an 
heiress, and, it was said, in no degree averse to the union ; they had been com- 
panions in childhood, but the lady, it would appear, was of too unromantic a 
disposition to remove the young baronet’s indifference. As his carriage rolled 
past the avenue that led to her dwelling, he merely leaned forward, and cast a 
fleeting glance towards the house. Where he met, and to what precise circum- 
stance he owed the possession of so lovely a wife as the lady I have endeavoured 
to describe, is still a mystery ; his business-letters conveyed no intelligence of 
his marriage ; nor was it until the arrival of gay furniture, from a fashionable 


124 


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Dublin upholsterer, that the idea of such an event occurred to the inhabitants of 
Clavis. 

When the baronet returned, and announced, as his lady, her who leaned upon 
his arm ; when the domestics received her with that warm-hearted and affec- 
tionate respect for which Irish servants are so justly celebrated ; and when 
the rumour went abroad that Sir John Clavis had married a Spanish lady, a 
Catholic, and “ one who had little more English than a Kerry-man,” great was 
the consternsftion, and many and various the conjectures. “ What will become 
of the ‘ Protestant Ascendancy,’ and the ‘ Glorious and Immortal Memory,’ now 
that a popish mistress is come to Clavis ?” said one party. “ Some chance of 
luck and grace turning to the ould Abbey, now that the right sort’s in it,” 
observed the other. Not a few affirmed that the lady had absconded from a 
convent ; others asserted that she was picked off, with a few other survivors, from 
a wrecked vessel in the Mediterranean ; those who had not seen her, whispered 
that she was no better than she should be ; but Miss Dorncliff — who, at first, 
perhaps, to show she was heart-whole, and afterwards from real regard, was 
often Lady Clavis’s guest — generously declared that she was the most charming 
woman she had ever met, that she was highly accomplished, and, although a 
Catholic and a Spaniard, anything but a bigot. 

Her want of knowledge of the language, when she arrived, prevented her 
joining in conversation either with those who visited her, or those at whose 
houses she was received. Perfectly unconscious of the rules and etiquette of 
society in our colder regions, she was sure to commit some grievous fault in 
the arrangement of her guests, which invariably threw her husband into an ill 
temper, that, after the honey-moon was over, he seldom thought it necessary to 
conceal. Sir John had shaken off a good deal of his ennui by journeying ; and 
when he came home he no longer stood on neutral ground, but suffered the 
excitement of politics to take the place of that which is the accompaniment of 
travelling. He had now discovered that, for the honour of the house, it was 
necessary he should adopt his father’s side of the question ; and accordingly the 
gardener was ordered to fill the flower-beds with orange lilies, and the hangings 
of the spare rooms were garnished with orange bindings. Unfortunately, the 
members of an Orange Lodge were invited to dine at the Abbey, and Lady 
Clavis positively refused to wear their colour, in any way, because she considered 
it as the symbol of persecution to the Catholic religion, of which she was a 
devout and faithful member. When her husband, after much contention, gave 
up the point, she ordered a green velvet dress for the occasion, embroidered 
with golden shamrocks ; she did this with a view to gratify him, never imagin- 
ing that the colour which emblems the beauty and fertility of Ireland, could 
be obnoxious to any body of Irishmen. What, then, was her astonishment 
when he, whom she had been so anxious to please, expressed a most angry 
opinion of her costume — which occasioned a flood of tears from one party, an 
from the other, an over hastily expressed desire that, as she could never under 
stand the customs of the country, she would give up trying to do so. Matri 


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125 

monial disputes are dreadfully uninteresting in the recital, — not entertaining 
as are lovers’ quarrels, simply because there is no danger of a heart-breaking 
separation arising from them; it is only the two engaged in those unhappy 
differences that can understand their bitterness ; the world has, for them, but 
little sympathy. Enough, then be it, that the innocent green velvet was the 
commencement of much real disagreement : the lady insisting that she had the 
dress made as a compliment to his party; the gentleman protesting that it could 
not be so, as green was always opposed to orange. This he repeated over and 
over again, without troubling himself to inquire whether his wife understood him 
or not. Many an unpleasantness grew out of this trifle, that continued silently, 
like the single drop of rain, to wear the rock of domestic happiness. Sir John 
persevered in drinking deeply of the bitter cup of politics, that universal destroyer 
of society and kindly feeling. He soon discovered, or imagined he had dis- 
covered, how perfectly a continental education unfits the most amiable woman 
in the world for the society and habits of our islands ; and the very efforts 
Lady Clavis made to appear cheerful, were silent reproaches to him for not 
endeavouring to make her so ; they had, however, still one feeling in common 
— affection for their child. 

While the mistress of Clavis Abbey was engaged in watching every move- 
ment of her beloved daughter, as the ntirse paced slowly beneath her turret- 
window, the baronet was sitting tete-a-tete with no other than Denny Dacey, 
who, from being what in England is termed bailiff to the estate, had risen to the 
rank of agent, under the title, as his correspondents set forth, of “Dionysius 
Dacey, Esq.,” &c. &c. How this person ever acquired the influence he pos- 
sessed over his patron, must now remain a mystery : it is to be supposed that 
he insinuated himself into his good graces, as a weasel does into a rabbit-burrow, 
by various twists and windings, of which nobler animals are incapable. It was 
no secret in the country that, although Sir John’s political apathy no longer 
existed, he had not acquired the active habits that are so especially necessary 
where a gentleman’s affairs are embarrassed, and where nothing but good sense, 
and steady economy, can retrieve them. During the young baronet’s residence 
abroad, Dacey had exceedingly prospered ; and though one or two shrewd land- 
holders suspected he used means, not consistent with his employer’s interests, 
to obtain both influence and wealth, there was so much plausibility about the 
man, that the most watchful could bring nothing home to him ; his bearing was 
blunt and open ; he affected honesty, but his look belied the utterance of his tongue, 
for his eye lacked the expression of truth, and, instead of looking forth straightly 
from beneath its pent-house lid, was everlastingly twisting into corners — with 
cat-lik6 quickness, watching a fitting opportunity, when those with whom he 
conversed were busied about other matters, to scan and observe their counte- 
nances. It has been to me an entertaining, though often an unpleasing, study, 
to attend to the varied expressions conveyed by the mere action of the eye, 
almost without reference to the other features ; and I would avoid, as I would a 
poisoned adder, the person whose eye quivers or looks down. 


126 


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The two friends (such is the usual term given to those who eat meat at 
the same board) were seated at either end of a somewhat long table, on which 
were piled papers of various dates and dimensions ; a huge bowl of punch had 
been nearly emptied of its contents, and the baronet did not appear particularly 
fit for business. He leaned listlessly on the table, as if in reverie, and it was 
only Dacey’s voice that roused him from his reflections. 

“ But, my dear Sir John,” he commenced, with his peculiar drawl, while 
nis eye was fixed on the punch-ladle ; “ My dear Sir John, ’pon my sowl it 
weigns upon my conscience, so it does, to be managing here, and you to the 
fore, with such a fine head and so much cleverness (a sly glance to see how the 
flattery took) ; ’t is a shame you don’t turn to it yourself, for by-’n-by you ’ll, 
may-be, find things worse nor you think ’em, as I have told you before, God 
knows — ” 

“ And will my looking over these cursed papers make things better ? It is 
positively enough to set me mad — just at a time, too, when our grand county 
meeting is coming on, and the general election, and so much exertion expected 
from me ; and the house will be full of English company from the castle, and 
Lady C. has not an idea how English people should be entertained.” 

“ But sure Miss Dorncliff is coming to stop with my lady while they stay,’ 9 

“Very true; she is a capital, good-natured girl, ’faith, and much better look- 
ing than she was eight years ago, when I left Ireland. Oh, dear ! I wonder 
young men of fortune marry, Dacey 1” 

“ Sir John, it is very necessary.” 

“Well, well, I suppose it is, but say no more about it; there are enough of 
disagreeable subjects on the table already,” The baronet looked upon the pile 
of papers, and the agent glanced keenly up, but his eye was quickly withdrawn. 

“ My lady was in a convent, I believe, Sir John?” 

“ Ay ; it was a fine exploit to get her out of it. Well, poor thing, she trusted 
to my honour, and was not deceived.” 

“ Of course you were married by a priest ?” (This was said cautiously.) 

“ To be sure we were, and by a jovial fellow too ; he went with me to the 
convent-wall, and performed the ceremony at the foot of a beautiful old cross, 
by the way-side, as the moon was sailing over our heads, and the orange-trees 
were showering perfume around us. Poor Madelina?” he continued, almost 
involuntarily, “ I found the withered orange-blossoms, which that night I bound 
upon her maiden brow, encased in a casket, with the hair of our child, only this 
morning.” 

“You had the ceremony repeated on your arrival in England?” inquired 
Dacey. 

Sir John Clavis fixed his eyes upon the reptile, and, in a sterner tone of voice 
than was his wont, in his turn became the querist. 

“ Why do you ask ?” 

“ For no reason, only that if you had a son it would be well to see that the 
marriage was firm and legal.” 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 127 

“ Thank you,” replied the baronet, drily, “ there is not much chance of that 
being the case ; and if there was — 

A long pause followed the last sentence, which neither seemed inclined 
to disturb. Dacey gathered the papers towards him, and, pulling his spectacles 
from his forehead to his nose, occupied himself in sorting and placing them in 
separate piles ; every five or ten minutes a heavy sigh escaped from his lips, the 
last of which was so audible, that Sir John exclaimed, “ What the devil, man 
alive, do you growl for in that manner? — one would think that you expected 
the ghost of your uncle, the priest, to start forth from the papers, and upbraid 
you with your apostacy !” 

“ Sorra a ghost at all, then, Sir John, among the papers ; only the reality of 
botherin’ debts, custodiums, thrown-up leases on account of the rackrent, and 
the Lord knows what !” 

“ And whose fault is it ?” replied the gentleman, angrily ; “ did I not leave it 
all to your management ? The property was a good property, and why should 
it not continue so ? I’m sure I can’t think how the money goes ; to do Lady C. 
justice she spends nothing.” 

“ There ’s the hounds, the hunters, and five grooms, of one sort or other, Sii 
John ; to say nothing of town-houses, and carriages, and — ” 

“ My father always had the same establishment,” interrupted Sir John, “ and 
never kept an agent to overlook matters either.” 

“ More ’s the pity !” ejaculated the manager (the exclamation might have been 
taken in two ways). 

“ There ’s no manner of use in my keeping you , if I am to be pestered with 
these eternal accounts — accounts — accounts — morning, noon, and night. The 
simple fact is,” continued Sir John, rising from his seat, “ the simple fact is, 
money I want, and money I must have. After flying to the Continent to 
avoid an election, I find that now, at this particular crisis, I cannot help 
running into the very strait I endeavoured to steer clear of. My friends say 
it is necessary, and would even subscribe (if I permitted) to return me free of 
expense ; that I will never do — so money, Dacey, money I must have, that ’s 
certain.” 

“ It ’s easy to say money,” retorted the agent ; “ will you sell, Sir John ?” 

“ What?” interrogated the baronet. 

“ There ’s the corner estate, that long strip, close by Ballyraggan ; your 
cousin Corney of the hill has long had an eye to it, and would lay down some- 
thing handsome.” 

“You poor, pitiful scoundrel!” exclaimed Sir John, “do you think it’s 
come to that , for me to sell land , like a huckster ! — and to Corney too, a fellow 
that gathers inches off every estate, as a magpie picks fi’pennies! — a fellow 
who, basely born, and basely bred, has, nevertheless, managed to accumulate 
wealth like a pawnbroker, on the miseries of others ! I know he has had an eye 
on that property these eight years, but look — sooner than he should have it, I ’ll 


128 THE LAST OF THE LINE. 

beg my bread— I ’ll sell the estate to a stranger to prevent the possibility of his 
ever possessing an acre of the land.” 

“ Please yerself, sir,” replied the manager, sweeping some of the papers into 
a wide-mouthed canvass sack which he drew from under his chair. “ Here ’s 
Mr. Damask’s, the upholsterer’s, letter — swears, if he ’s not paid, he ’ll clap on an 
execution like lightning; it’s as good as 2,500/. now, with costs.” 

“ Fire and fury !” exclaimed the baronet, who, his apathy once shaken off, 
became terrible in his violence ; “ do you want to drive me mad ?” 

“ Then I ’ll say nothing of Mr. Barry Mahon’s little letter,” continued the 
man of business, quietly, “ who writes, that as you ’ve decided on standing , in 
opposition to him, he ’ll trouble you for the money he lent you as good as four 
years ago, to complete some purchase or other ; it ends very civilly though, 
by saying that it ’s only the knowledge that a gentleman like you will be a 
formidable adversary, which obliges him to strain every nerve to make his own 
step firm.” 

“ A blight upon him and his civility !” 

“ Then here is — .” Mr. Dacey was prevented from finishing his sentence, 
by Sir John’s striking the table so violently with his clenched hand, that the very 
punch-bowel trembled, and the agent ejaculated, “ Lord, save us !” 

“Look here!” said the baronet, “you have, I know — means, somehow or 
other, of raising money when you like ; find me the sum of ten thousand pounds 
by this day week, and that very estate, so coveted by my cousin Corney, shall 
be yours for ever, at a peppercorn rent, provided the matter be kept secret ; 
mind, provided it be kept secret , and you bind yourself never to let a twig of it 
into Corney’s possession.” 

“ It ’s easy to keep secret a thing that never happens,” observed Dacey, 
rolling the cord of the bag between his finger and thumb; “is it me get 
money when I like ? — and I obliged to go at credit even for these brogues on 
my feet !” — and he put forth a topped boot, well-polished and shining, as he 
spoke. 

“ The Corner estate, as it is called,” repeated Sir John. 

“ At a peppercorn rent,” pondered Dacey ; “ if a body could any way make 
up the money, I’ d do a dale to oblige you, sir ; and, though I ’ve neither cross 
nor coin to bless myself with, to be sure I know them that has, who, may-be, for 
a valuable consideration, might — though I don’t know — the little estate — eh ! — 
ten thousand — it ’s badly worth that, Sir John, unless, indeed, you ’d throw the 
fourteen acres of pasture by the loch into it.” 

“Well!” exclaimed the indolent baronet, though perfectly conscious that the 
land was worth double the sum ; “ we ’ll talk about that, provided you insure me 
the money ; and now gather your parchments, and vanish ; I ’ve had enough of 
arithmetic to last me for some months— and, Dacey !” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ After the election, I will really look into matters myself; but, at pre- 
sent, when the good of my country is at stake — when we are threatened with 


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129 

invasion from without, and rebellion from within — the man must be basely sel- 
fish who thinks of self. — Oh, Dacey ! did you see the Madeira safely into 
the cellar V* 

“ Yes, Sir John.” 

“ Good night, Dacey !— there— good night— you won’t forget— ten thousand 
— hard gold — none of your flimsy paper — the Corner estate.” 

“ And the pasture.” 

“ There, good night,” repeated the baronet, as the wily agent bowed him- 
self out of the apartment. Sir John Clavis rose from his seat, and threw open 
the window which was directly under the turret that formed the boudoir of his 
Spanish wife ; indeed, it was the sound of her guitar that had drawn him to it ; 
and he recognized a favourite seguidilla, to which he had written words ; he 
remembered having taught her to repeat them ; and the full rich voice that 
had given them so much beauty — if in that twilight hour it sounded less 
melodious— had never fallen upon his ear so full of tenderness; its simple 
burthen — 

“ Sweet olive-groves of Spain,” 

brought the remembrance of what Madelina was to him, in the days when he 
playfully chid the mispronunciation of his poetry; and as the prospect of 
receiving the ten thousand, and not being plagued about money matters, had 
somewhat softened his temper (the idea that he was diminishing his property 
had no share whatever in his thoughts — possessing, as he did, the dangerous — 
nay, fatal, faculty of looking only on to-day), he thought, I say, of his wife, 
with more complacency than he had done since the affair of the green velvet. 
He was pleased when he heard Miss Dorncliff (of whose arrival he was uncon- 
scious) urge her to repeat the strain. She commenced, but at a line which he 
well remembered — 

“ I know no blessing but thy smile.” 

Her voice faltered, and the next moment he heard her friend chiding away her 
tears ; his first impulse was to proceed to her apartment, and inquire their cause ; 
but then he hated scenes ; and vanity or curiosity, or both, prompted him to 
remain ; and the broken dialogue which followed, happily for the repose of his 
soul, roused, in his wife’s cause, the best feelings of his heart. Many were the 
affectionate expressions lavished by Miss Dorncliff on her friend, and many the 
entreaties that she would cease to agitate herself upon what, she insisted, was a 
surmise without foundation. 

“You would not say so,” replied Madelina, “if you had seen his atten- 
tions, his tenderness, on the Continent — or heard his repeated promises that 
my religion should be held sacred ; the little silver shrine, that my sainted 
mother so often knelt to, I have been obliged to remove, even from this 
chamber, which it is mockery to call my own ; and though I cannot understand 
17 


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130 

all he says — and though his eye is bright, and his lip smiles, sometimes, yet he 
never looks upon me as he used ; to me his countenance is sadly changed .” 

“ I ’ll tell you what, my dear,” replied her friend, taking advantage of a 
pause in her complaint, “ adopt the course I should have taken, if my good 
father’s scheme had, unfortunately for me, been carried into effect. Assert 
your own dignity ; if he looks as cold as snow, do you look as cold as ice — if 
he stamps, do you storm — if he orders, do you counter-order — if he says, ‘ I 
will,’ do you say ‘you shan’t.’ My life on it! — such conduct for one week 
would bring him sighing to your feet. Here you sit, with your baby, which, 
if he had the common feelings of a man, he w T ould worship you for presenting 
to him — ” 

“Stop, my dear Margaret,” said Lady Clavis; “do him not injustice: he 
loves his child as fondly as father ever loved a child; he has not changed 
to it—” 

“ Yet,” interrupted, in her turn, the indignant Margaret, “ he has not changed 
yet , but who can tell how soon he may ? The man who would change to you 
must be base indeed.” 

“ He is not base,” replied the wife, in a sweet, low tone, which penetrated 
into the inmost recesses of Sir John’s heart, “ not base, only weak ; he is sur- 
rounded by a parcel of flatterers, many of whom hate me because of my reli- 
gion, and others for reasons which I cannot define ; but look, Margaret, were 
he to treat me as a dog, were he to spurn me from him, and trample me to 
dust, even that dust would rise to heaven’s own gate to ask for blessings on his 
head.” 

“ She is an angel after all !” thought Sir John. 

“You are a fool, my dear!” both thought and exclaimed Miss Dorncliff; 
“ and I only wish I were big enough to throw him over the terrace of this old 
musty place, and I would soon choose you a husband worthy of your love.” 

“Upon my word, I am much obliged to you, Miss Minx?” murmured the 
baronet, as he cautiously closed the window, resolving to turn over a new leaf, 
and station himself, for the remainder of the evening, in his wife’s dressing- 
room. He could not avoid thinking, as he passed through the winding corri- 
dors and up the staircases, “ a very pretty wife I should have had, if it had 
been as my worthy agent seems to think it might be even now. The fellow 
means Avell, but he is mistaken ; I should not have been able to call my life my 
own — the termagant! Thank goodness, I escaped her! I never valued my 
blessing before !” 

He met his child in the lobby, and took the laughing cherub from the nurse’s 
to his own arms. As he prepared to enter, “ You may go down, Mary,” he 
said, seeing the maid waiting to receive the child. “ I will take Miss Madeline 
in myself.” 

How easily can a man make the woman who truly loves him, happy ! It 
was enough for Lady Clavis that her husband was at her side — enough that he 
smiled upon her— enough that he called her “darling:” although it would 


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131 

have been better for them both, had she possessed the strength of mind to 
entitle her to the name of “ friend,” the most sacred, yet the most abused, of 
all endearing terms. Miss Dorncliff exulted in her happiness, though her 
more cool and deliberate temperament led her to believe that Sir John’s “ love- 
fit,” as she termed it in her own mind, would not be of long duration. She 
little knew the service she had rendered Lady Clavis by her somewhat intem- 
perate advice; nor the dread of the baronet lest any portion of that advice 
should be followed by his gentle wife. 

As Mary Conway, Madelina’s nurse, descended to the vestibule, she heard 
a voice, whose sound was familiar to her ear, repeat her name two or three 
times, and in various tones ; she lingered for a moment, and then as if gladly 
remembering that her infant charge was committed to its parent’s care, 
turned into an abrupt passage, leading from the great hall to one of the arch- 
ways, where dews and damps mouldered from day to day upon the massive 
walls. 

“What are ye afther wantin’ now, Mister Benjy?” she inquired, as the 
outline of her lover’s (for there is no use in concealing the fact) figure became 
visible to her laughing eyes. 

“ Nothing particular, that is to say very particular,” replied the youth, who 
was no other than Dacey’s nephew ; “ only I ’m going a journey to-night, and I 
thought I ’d be all the betther for your God speed, or, may-be, a bit of prayer 
to the saints you think so much of.” 

“A journey — where to?” inquired Mary, with a palpitating heart. . 

“Why, thin, just to Dublin, Mary, honey. And it’s glad enough I’d be to 
get out of this murderin’ grand ould place, only just for one single thing.” 

“ And might a body know what that is ?” again inquired the maiden. 

“ Honour bright, Mary, because I shan’t see yer sweet smilin’ face for many 
a long day, may-be; for uncle says he has a dale o’ business to transact in 
Dublin, and that he ’ll be wanting me to look afther it; indeed, I ’m thinkin’ that 
he has a notion we ’re keeping company, and don’t over like it ; though, Mary, 
darlin’, it ’s more nor he can do to put between us.” 

Mary covered her face with her hand, and, though no sigh or sound escaped 
her lips, tears bedewed her cheeks. She was nothing more nor less than a 
frank-hearted, good-natured girl, with only three or, perhaps, four definite ideas 
in her pretty round head — the first of which was decided love for her mistress, 
and her mistress’s child — a great portion of affection for Benjamin Dacey— and 
no small regard for finery, in all its branches and bearings ; she consequently 
had not a multiplicity of objects to divide her attention, which was therefore 
steadily devoted to the service of her three or four several propensities. The 
idea of her lover’s being sent aw r ay, and to Dublin too, overwhelmed her with 
grief, to which she would have given more audible vent, but that Benjamin 
nad unwittingly observed, his “uncle didn’t over like his keeping company 
with her,” which aroused the maiden’s pride ; she therefore said, “ that, indeed, 

Mr. Hnr*r»v nnnrht to ro.mimbor whon ho nnpp hpl/4 twA or thrpp nprpc of Inn/! 


132 


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under her father,” and that, “ though she was at the Abbey, she was far from 
being a rale sarvant ; she took care of Miss Maddy more from pure love nor 
anything else. May-be, it was Mister Benjy himself that wanted to be off the 
promise — if so, she was willing and ready,” &c. &c. But, in fact, these lovers’ 
quarrels are the same in all cases ; I could give a recipe by which people might 
quarrel, agreeably , ten times a week on an average — only, as love would be the 
principal ingredient in my prescription, I fear the misunderstandings would be 
too soon understood for your genuine downright-in-earnest quarrellers. I 
must not tarry with those young people, during their parting scene, but only 
recount that “ Mary,” as she afterwards expressed it, “ got a dale out of 
Benjy, which no one should be the wiser for ; only her heart was fairly crushed 
— thinkin’ what a misfortune it was to a boy like him to have such an uncle 
even this she only communicated to her particular friend and companion, Patty 
Grace. 

When the expected company arrived from Dublin, — from " the Castle,” as 
it has been familiarly termed for ages — it was evident that Sir John had nerved 
his mind to some great undertaking to which he was secretly urged by Dennis 
Dacey. Indeed, the particular party which had once been led by his father, 
were anxious he should tread in the same steps, and they again regretted 
that his union with a Catholic was likely to cool his ardour in “ the good 
cause ;” they, however, did their best to urge him forward — and “ the glorious 
and immortal memory” was drank so often after dinner, that those who sacri- 
ficed to the sentiment had neither glorious nor inglorious memory left. The 
humble parish priest never joined in these revels ; and when Dacey, in Lady 
Clavis’s presence, hinted at this circumstance, and had, moreover, the audacity 
to assert that his absence was a tacit acknowledgment of disloyalty, the lady 
roused herself in defence of her ancient friend, and told the agent that, if reli- 
gion was a proof of loyalty, he must be the worst of traitors, for he was a 
renegade from the faith of his fathers, and had changed for the love of filthy 
lucre. Dacey trembled and turned pale; but as he quitted the apartment he 
muttered a deep and bitter curse against the lady of Clavis Abbey. Not only 
had “the little estate” been secretly transferred to Dacey, along with the 
fourteen acres of pasture, and the ten thousand pounds paid for present relief, 
but other sums must, at this crisis, be advanced to relieve the necessities of the 
proprietor, and other lands sacrificed to feed the rapacity of the agent. Mr. 
Barry Mahon resolved to stand as the people's champion, and already were 
the addresses of the several candidates duly printed in the county papers. The 
Abbey became such a scene of interminable bustle and confusion, as the day for 
the commencement of the election approached, that it would be difficult to convey 
an idea of the strange persons and objects 'which crowded on each other. To 
Mary Conway’s great delight, Benjamin unexpectedly returned ; and, from the 
manner in which his uncle received him, it might be supposed that he was not 
particularly pleased at the circumstance ; he, however, carved out for him the 
task of managing (dare I say bribing ?) a few refractory freeholders at some 


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133 


distance : but the young man did not depart until he had whispered some words 
of moment into his true love’s ear. The same evening, when Mary was undress- 
ing the little Madeline, Lady Clavis entered the room, happy to escape from 
a tumult she could hardly understand. 

“ I ’m so glad yer honourable ladyship ’s come in,” said the girl ; “ I wanted 
so much to know what you ’d have packed up to take into town to-morrow, my 
lady — as, in coorse, you mean to go with his honour to see the election and al 
that?” 

“ Indeed, Mary,” replied Lady Clavis, “ I have no such intention ; I shall be 
but too glad to escape the bustle of it here — and I should be only in the way, 
Sir John says.” 

“Och, my grief ! does his honour, the masther, say that? But no matter, 
Madam, dear ; for the love o’ God, as ye value yer own honour, and the honour 
of this sweet babby, go ! — go, for God’s sake ! — or you ’ll be sorry for it, — mark 
my words !” 

Lady Clavis was astonished at the girl’s vehement manner and gestures, but 
still she remained firm to her purpose. She was suffering acutely from mental 
anxiety and bodily exertion ; and as Sir John had continued to treat her with 
great kindness, she was anxious to show how willingly she would yield to his 
wishes — even where they were opposed to her own. But Mary was not to be 
thus satisfied. She “ hushowed” her little charge to sleep, and descended to 
the lobby that led to her master’s study. She paused for a few moments at 
the entrance, and inclined her head so as to catch any sound that might pass 
along, having ascertained that persons were speaking within. I cannot avoid 
lamenting that she was led away, by what might be called “ natural curiosity,” 
to draw near — very near; so near that her ear covered the key-hole — and 
listen — systematically listen — to whatever conversation was going on. She 
might have remained some fifteen minutes, in no very comfortable attitude, 
when she suddenly started up; but had hardly receded three steps from the 
door, when it was opened, and the round vulgar face of Dacey appeared, care- 
fully prying into the darkness. Mary saw she could not escape unnoticed, so, 
with ready wit, she inquired, “Oh, Misther Dacey, have you seen my lady’s 
Finny ? I ’ve been huntin’ all the evenin’ after the ugly baste, and can get 
neither tale nor tidings of it ? — Finny ! — Finny ! — Finny !” 

“ Can ye see in the dark, like the cats, Miss Mary, with yer fine red topknot?” 
said Dacey, earnestly. 

“ Troth ye may ask that,” she replied, “ for my candle went out.” 

“ And where ’s the candlestick, Miss Mary ?” persisted the keen querist. 

“ No wonder ye ’d inquire, but sorra one have we been able to lay hands on 
these three w T eeks, for the shoals o’ company, so I just used the same candlestick 
my father and your father, Misther Dacey, war best acquainted with — my fingers 
why ! Finny ! — Finny ! — Finny !” 

She was receding, calling the dog at the same time ; when Dacey, whose ire 


134 


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was roused, followed her nearly to the end, and said, “You’d better not turn 
yer tongue against my family, Miss Impudence, for ye ’re mighty anxious to get 
mto it, I ’m thinkin’.” 

“ Not into your family, Misther Dacey,” retorted Mary, proudly. “ Anxious, 
indeed ! I don’t deny that Benjy and I have been keepin’ company, though my 
true belief is, he ’s no nevvy of yours. Ye ’d think little of adoptin’ any man’s 
child or property either.” 

“ Hah !” he exclaimed, seizing her arm, and pressing it firmly, “ is that the 

news ye ’re afther ? — ye ’d better ” but the girl prevented his finishing his 

threat by screaming “ Murder !” so loudly, that Sir John Clavis rushed out, with 
a candle in his hand, to inquire into the nature of the disturbance. 

Dacey looked extremely foolish, while Mary lifted her apron to her eyes, and, 
with well-feigned tears, declared, “ It ’s a shame — and I ’ll tell my lady, so I will, 
that when I was looking for little Finny, he came out of your honour’s study to 
kiss me, yer honour — a dacent girl like me — I ’ll tell my lady, so I will. Finny ! 
— Finny! — Finny!” And off she marched triumphantly, leaving Dacey to 
explain his equivocal situation as he best could. 

The night had become dark and stormy, and when Mary put her head from 
under the archway, before mentioned, large drops of rain were drifted on her 
face. She hastily folded her grey mantle round her, and stepping from parapet 
to parapet of the ancient enclosure, gained a particular elevation that overlooked 
the entire country. Here she paused for a moment, and then pushed into the 
brushwood that covered the slope leading to the meadows. Having reached 
the stream, that partook of the agitation of the evening gale, she seemed puz- 
zled how to make her passage good ; but her perplexity was not of long duration, 
although the stepping-stones were perfectly covered by the swollen waters. 
She seated herself on the wet grass, took off her shoes and stockings, and, fold- 
ing her clothes round her, prepared to cross the river. — Having achieved her 
purpose, after much buffeting with both wind and water, she readjusted her dress 
and proceeded on her way so intently, and with so much resolution, that I doubt 
if she would have stayed her course had she even met the bogle that frightened 
the good Shepherd of Ettrick — 

“ Its face was black as Briant coal, 

Its nose was o’ the whunstane ; 

. Its mou’ was like a borel-hole — 

That puffed out fire and brimstane.” 

Regardless of banshees, cluricauns, or any of the fairy tribe, Mary pressed 
earnestly forward till she arrived opposite a small gate that opened into an 
extensive park ; the lock was out of repair, so that she had but to apply her 
finger underneath, and push the bolt back. She only paused to inhale a long 
breath, and flew onward across the yielding grass, startling birds and herded 
deer from their early slumbers : this continued fleetness soon brought her opposite 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 135 

the gate of a noble modern mansion, but she preferred entering through a little 
postern-door, to ascending the stone steps. 

“ Where ’s her honour V * she inquired of an old serving-man, astonished at her 
untimely visit. 

“ Lord, Mary ! you ’ve frightened the senses out o’ me.” 

“ Why, then, it ’s myself is glad to hear it.” 

“Why so, Mary?” 

“Because it’s the first time I’ve heard of yer havin’ any in, — but where’s 
the lady ?” 

“ Umph,” replied the old servant, evidently annoyed, “ find out!” and, turning 
on his heel, he was leaving the offended damsel alone, when she snatched the 
candle that maintained a very equivocal equilibrium in his hand, and ran up the 
back staircase. 

“ That one has the impudence of the ould boy in her, and makes as free in 
this house as if it was her own,” he observed. 

She tapped gently at the door of a small apartment, and a clear-toned voice 
responded, “ Come in.” In another moment Mary was in Miss Dorncliff’s pre- 
sence. She advanced, making a courtesy at every second step, until she stood 
opposite the young lady, who regarded her with much surprise. 

“Why, Mary, is your mistress ill — or has anything happened to little. 
Madeline ?” 

“ No, God be thanked — nothin’ — to say nothin’ — yet,” replied the girl, laying 
her hand on the back of a chair for support, for she had traversed nearly five 
Irish miles 'in less than an hour. 

“ Sit down, sit down, my good girl,” said the lady, kindly ; “ and, as soon as 
you can, tell me what has agitated you thus.” 

“ Thank you, my lady — sure ye said that just like herself that’s the angel 
intirely, if ever there was one, God knows ! — and God counsel her, and you, my 
lady ; for she won’t be said or led by me, and more ’s the pity !” 

“ You speak of your mistress, Mary, I suppose,” interrupted Miss Dorncliff, 
“ but do come to the point at once, for I am all anxiety.” 

“ I can’t make a long story short, Madam, particular when my heart ’s all in 
it — but as fast as I can, I ’ll riddle it all out, for sure my heart ’s burstin’ to tell 
it.” The lady assumed the attitude of a patient listener, and Mary, again draw- 
ing a long breath, and pulling first one and then another of her red but taper 
fingers, commenced the disclosure of her mystery. 

“Ye remember, w 7 hen her ladyship first came over, the bobbery and the 
work there was about her ; and the people — the protestant people (savin’ yer 
favour — all but yerself) saying this, that, and t’ other about her, as if she wasn’t 
what she ought to be. Well, to my knowledge and belief, the one who kept 
this stirrin’ was no other than that ould vagabond — that the beams of God’s own 
sun and moon ’ud scorn to rest upon (savin’ yer presence, for mentionin’ him be- 
fore ye) — ould Dacey ; because ye ’re sensible he ’s a turn-coat in the first place 


136 


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—and my lady is so steady to her duty, that it was ever and always puttin’ him to 
shame ; and then to be sure my lady, seein’, I suppose, that in foreign parts 
the poor are all negres , God save us ! (may-be black bodies too) my lady was 
high to him — she has a high way with her, I grant, and sure so has the lilies, 
though they’re so sweet and gentle when you come to know them — well, for 
that he hated her ; and I ’m sure it ’s more to get at the way of punishing her, 
than even securin’ the property, that he ’s been goin’ on as he has lately ” 

“Securing what property? — going on how?” eagerly demanded Miss 
DornclifF. 

“ Let me tell ye my own way, Miss, agra ! or I can’t go on ; besides, how 
would ye get at the rights of it, if ye didn’t hear it from the beginnin’ ?” 

Miss DornclifF resumed her patient attitude. 

“Ye see ould Dacey knows what he ’s afther, and Sir John has a way of his 
own of never seein’ to anything — gentleman-like — though I can’t but think it 
a bad fashion ; and while he was away, there was a dale of plunderin’ roguery 
goin’ on; and when he came home, sure the agent managed to keep him 
employed gettin’ presentments, and entertainin’, an’ making speeches about 
pathriotism, and all that (I ’ve been tould he ’s a powerful fine speaker, though 
I can’t say I ever heard him) — and ever divartin’ him with sich things, till the 
right time, when he turned, my dear ! as quick as a merryman, and bothered 
him with debts and accounts. Now the masther, bein’ a classical scholard (as 
I’ve heard tell), didn’t by coorse like the figures, which are only common 
lamin’ ; and the ould one played his cards so well, that he made him hate the 
sight of a bill, or a figure ; till at last Sir John said, 4 Manage it all yerself,’ 
which he was glad to get the wind of the word to do, though all the time he 
was purtendin’ he wanted the masther to look to it himself— the thief o’ the 
world ! As well as I can come at it, Madam (Miss, I ax j^er pardon), Sir John 
agreed to let Dacey have pieces of estates, on the sly, for ready money, at half 
their valee — agreein’ that Dacey should keep it to himself; for the pride, ye 
see, wouldn’t let him own it ; and the ould one, ’cute like, got sich another rogue 
as himself, in Dublin, to go somethin’ in it. You’re sinsible , Miss, my lady? 
Bein’ not a well larned girl, never havin’ got beyant my read-a-me-daisy, I 
can’t understand the rights of it, only that these two was cochering together, 
and procurin’ money — for what I know, unlawful money — from foreign parts, 
and gettin’ bit by bit of the poor masther’s property from him’, and tyin’ him 
down, as Benjy said.” 

44 As who said ?” interrupted Miss DornclifF 

44 Why, Benjy said so,” stammered forth the girl, confused at committing her 
lover’s name. 

“ Then Benjy, as you call him, was your informant as to these pretty villanous 
plots, I suppose ?” interrogated the lady. 

44 1 didn’t say that , Miss DornclifF: sure a body may make a remark, as the 
poor boy did, when they hear a thing, without being the one to tell it ?” retorted 
the girl, keenly looking into her face ; and the lady, wisely, seeing that Mary 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 137 

was now put on the qui vive to prevent her lover being suspected as the informer, 
merely replied, “ Go on.” 

“Ye’ve put me out ever so many times! but all I’ve got to say’s asy said 
now ; it isn’t enough for that ould devil’s pippin that he has custotied, or some 
sich thing, the whole land, so as to make the noble gentleman all as one as a 
genteel beggar, but now that the election is come on, and Sir John goin’ to 
stand for the county and all — what d’ye think, but he ’s laid a plan to get the 
poor gentleman into W , to give the word to some thraythors of vaga- 

bonds, and get him arrested and shamed forenent the whole county, unless— 
(oh, the black villain!) — unless — (the sneakin’ ditch-hopper !)— unless — (oh, 
indeed I can’t say it, for the chokin’ of my throat !) — unless he puts away his dar- 
lin’ wife — who can be made out not his wife, on account of the religion, as I ’m 
creditably informed ; and that, if he doesn’t give in to this, he ’ll expose him 
in the face of the people, which I know the masther ’ud rather die than stand. 
Well, Miss, ye see, he’s got Sir John to promise intirely that he’ll not take my 
lady with him, because she ’s delicate like ; and he ’s persuaded masther she ’d be 
in the way. And I want her to go — for look,” continued Mary, giving full 
scope to the action and energy of her country, “ if she was with him, he couldn’t 
desart her, and look in her sweet patient face, and her two darlint eyes, that 
send the bames of true and pure love right to his soul ; he couldn’t look at that , 
ma’am dear, and consent to stick a knife in her heart, and send the blessin’ of 
the poor, the light of one’s eyes — the fond craythur that trusted him, as if she 
was a thing of shame, abroad into the could , could , world ! — but — ” and here 
the poor girl’s voice sank from the highest tones of hope, to the low and feeble 
ones of uncertainty — “ if she ’s not with him, and that villain at his shoulder — 
and the disgrace — and lose the election — and all that ; and if he agrees — plinty 
o’ money — and the seat — and ivery thing smooth, and keep him more than half 
or whole mad, betwixt the fame and the whiskey ! — it ’ill be all over with my 
poor lady ! — Oh, she little thinks ! — this blessed night — she ’ll lay down her head 
and die !” Mary hid her face in her hands, and sobbed bitterly. 

“ My poor friend ! — my dear Madelina !” exclaimed Miss Dorncliff, as she 
hastily passed up and down the apartment ; “ how wmrthy of a better fate ! — 
Mary, there is nc^use in your denying it; Benjy has given. you this information, 
and he must give it publicly.” 

“ D’ye want ruin on him too ?” returned the subdued girl ; “ sure he ’s above a 
trade, and has been brought up like a born gentleman to do nothin’ ; — and, even 
if he had a mind, how can he turn agin the ould villain, his uncle, when sorra 
a penny he ’d have in the world, and doesn’t know how to make one?” 

“ Look,” said the lady ; “ if Benjamin will bring forward such proof of trick- 
ery as can force conviction on Sir John’s mind, I will settle upon him a suffi- 
ciency for life ; and there,” she continued, throwing her purse into Mary’s lap, 
“is the earnest of my promise.” For a moment, the girl forgot her mistress’s 
interests in her own, as she eyed the glittering treasure; but soon she reverted 
to what, with true Irish fidelity, was nearest her heart. 

18 


138 


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“ My lady, you ’ll come to her now, and persuade the masther to take her and 
make out something to oblige him to take her. Och ! my heart never warmed 

to ye as much as it does at this minute ! — for they said .” She stopped 

before the conclusion of the sentence. 

“ What did they say, Mary V 9 inquired Miss DornclifF. 

“ That you, my lady — only I ’m loath to repeat a lie — that, may-be, you ’d 
marry the masther, if he ’d put away his wife.” 

Miss Dorncliff’s face and forehead crimsoned to the deepest dye at this 
villanous insinuation. “ Me !” she ejaculated, as if to herself, “ Me ! — the base- 
born churls ! But I will save her , come what may. Mary,” she continued 
after a pause, “ Mary, do not say a word of your having been here — mind, not 
a syllable. You will see me in the morning.” 

“ Before masther goes ?” inquired Mary. 

“No, but soon — immediately after. Fear not, my good girl, your mistress 
shall be safely cared for.” 

“ May the holy Mother, whether ye ’ve faith in her or no, preserve ye from 
harm, and may heaven be yer bed at last !” replied Mary, clasping her hands, 
and looking most affectionately at Miss DornclifF ; “ and a good night, and a fresh 
blessin’ to ye every mornin’ that ye see day-light !” 

When Miss DornclifF was again alone, she resolved her plans as she paced 
along her chamber. For the last three years she had had the sole manage- 
ment and control of her father’s affairs, whose age had, in a great degree, 
swallowed up his mind ; and a large property was also at her sole command, 
which she had already inherited from her uncle. That night she neither 
slumbered nor slept ; repose came not to her body or her spirit ; and, from 
the highest window* of the dwelling, she watched until she saw Sir John’s 
equipage, w T ith his troop of noisy retainers, pass the great gate on its way to 

W . She then ordered her own carriage, and in a little time was at Clavis 

Abbey. The first person she inquired for was Mary, and doubtless she 
derived some information from her, for they were long together. She then pro- 
ceeded to Lady Clavis’s dressing-room, and found her in tears. 

“I cannot tell why,” she said, “but I feel a sad anticipation of evil 
hanging over me. It was so strange, John kissed me this morning when he 
thought I w r as asleep ; and, do you know, he attempted to kneel at Madelina’s 
cradle, but he rushed, like a madman, from the room, despite my efforts to 
recall him.” 

“We must follow him, then,” observed Miss DornclifF, assuming an air of 
gaiety, — “ we must follow him ; I want most sadly to go to the election — my 
presence will. cheer bn my own tenants to his service; and there is no saying 
but that some of them, were I not on the spot, might dare to think for themselves. 
Besides, I can only go under the protection of a matron, you know. No inter 
ruption — I must be obeyed ; w'e will set off this afternoon, so as to hear his 
maiden speech from the hustings.” 


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139 


Lady Clavis offered a very weak opposition to what her heart longed to 

engage in, and they arrived in W at about half-past ten at night. The 

little Madelina was left in Mary’s care at the Abbey. 

There was no difficulty in finding the inn, or, as it was called, hotel, where 
the Orange member put up ; for he had steadily refused going to the house of 
either of his constituents. 

The waiters immediately recognized Lady Clavis, and, with many bows, con- 
ducted her into the passage, which was empty at the time, though the sounds of 
music, singing, and loud debate, were clearly distinguished by the ladies, even 
^before they alighted from their carriage. 

“ You can show us to a sitting-room, where we can wait till Sir John is disen- 
gaged. We wish to surprise him,” said Miss Dorncliff. 

“ I can’t tell him ye ’re here just now, my lady,” replied the man, “ for Mr. 
Dacey said they war not to be disturbed ; and there ’s two gentlemen, I ’m thinkin’ 
from Dublin, besides two or three others, waitin’ to get speakin’ with him. And 
it ’s myself don’t know where to put yer ladyships, barrin’ ye ’ll go into a purty 
tidy room jist off where his honour ’s settlin’ a little affair of business with Mr. 
Dacey. Sure, if I ’d known you war cornin’, it ’s the great grand committee- 
place I ’d have had redied out for ye.” 

“Be firm and cautious now, my dear friend, for the hour of trial is come,” 
observed Miss Dorncliff, in French, as she pressed her friend’s arm closely to 
her heart ; — “ the men from Dublin, and all : we have just arrived in the right 
time — depend upon it, all will be well.” 

The waiter stared with stupid astonishment, and said, “ May-be ye ’d have 
the goodness, my lady, not to speak out much, as Sir John ’s at business in the 
next room, and he mightn’t like to be disturbed ; it ’ill do to tell him by-’n-by, 
won’t it, my lady ? But what ’ll you please to take ?” 

“Nothing — nothing, now,” replied Miss Dorncliff; for Lady Clavis appeared 
incapable of either mental or bodily exertion. Her friend had revealed to her a 
considerable portion of her plans and anxieties during their brief journey, and 
her elegant but weak mind, unable to arrive at any conclusion, remained in a 
state of passive obedience. 

Communicating with the next apartment was a small door, which hung 
very loosely on its hinges ; the cracks and chinks were many ; and through 
the principal one Miss Dorncliff saw Sir John sitting at a table, his face buried 
in his hands; while Dacey, whose head was approached close to his, was 
talking in a low eager tone — so low that only broken syllables reached 
her ear. 

At last Sir John removed his hands, and, lifting his eyes slowly, while his pale 
and sunken features expressed the painful struggles he endured, said, “ It mus 
not be, Dacey ; do you think I want to insure damnation to my soul ? Wha 
possible difference can it make to you, that you thus stipulate for her destruction? 
Men are seldom so desperately wicked without a motive.” 

“ Hasn’t she scorned me, and ordered me out of the room as if I was a 


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neagre ? — hasn’t she treated me with the pontempt which a man never forgives ? 

— hasn’t she but the short and the long of it is, Sir John, that you know 

my determination : disgrace her, or disgrace yourself! — disclaim your marriage, 
or go to jail ! — to jail, instead of to parliament ! — to the jail, where Mr. Mahon 
can point, as he passes it, at the last of the house of Clavis ! There ’s the pen 
and the ink ; I don’t force ye — do as ye please — it’s no business of mine.” The 
fellow pushed some parchments and papers towards the unfortunate baronet, and 
gathered unto himself a pile of rouleaus that were filled with gold, w 7 hile his eyes 
gloated and glared on the agonized face of his patron ! “ Sure, there ’s no harm 
in life in keeping a foreigner like her,” continued the brute ; “ many has done, 
the same, and will again. Send her back to the 4 olive-groves of Spain,’ she ’s 
so fond of singing about, and ” 

“ Peace, miscreant !” roared Sir John, in a voice of thunder, quite forgetting 
the time and place. 

44 Whisht !” exclaimed the coward, “ never call names so loud — you know 
I ’m yer best friend. If these sheriff’s officers hear ye, it will be high mass 
with us all?” 

The baronet sank back in a state of stupefaction, and the agent advanced 
towards him, pen in hand. Almost mechanically Sir John took the little instru- 
ment in his fingers — its point touched the paper — even the letter J was traced, 
when Miss DornclifK’pushed strongly against the door ; and, in the same instant, 
both Sir John and Dacey were trembling in her presence. For some moments, 
all parties remained silent — gazing at each other with such varied expressions 
as would be difficult to describe. With the politeness with which Nature has 
endowed every Irishman, from the prince to the peasant, both pushed seats 
towards the young heiress, which she declined ;• at last Sir John inquired, as the 
pen dropped from his fingers, “ to what circumstance they were indebted for the 
honour of her visit ?” 

“I came, Sir John,” she replied — and the first sentence was uttered in a 
trembling voice, which gained strength as she proceeded, “ I came to save the 
husband of my friend, Lady Clavis, from destruction !” 

“ Sir John’s pride mounted, as he replied, stifly and formally, “ that he was not 
aware to what Miss Dorncliff could allude.” 

“ This, Sir John,” she continued, heedless of his interruption, 44 is a bad 
time for compliments ; you were about to sign a paper repudiating your wife, 
in order that that bad man might relieve your present necessities, and save you 
from arrest. I cannot now bring forward the proofs that I possess, of his 
villanies, and the various arts he has used to dupe your understanding, while 
he ruined your property. I pledge my word to do so ; and to redeem all, even 
the little Corner estate from his clutches, if, instead of signing his paper, you 
will sign mine — and, to relieve your present embarrassment, I will tell down 
guinea for guinea of the money you are to receive from that person ! Need I 
say more ?— Need I urge the love you have tried ?— Need I ask if you will con- 
sign your child to shame ? — Need I ” 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 


141 


She Was interrupted by a loud and piercing shriek from Lady Clavis, as with 
one strong effort she rushed from the outer room, and threw herself into her 
husband’s arms. He was so unprepared, so astonished, that he did not appear 
able to support her, and she sank gradually on her knees — her hands clasped 
— her hair falling in heavy masses over her neck and shoulders— and her eyes 
shining with unnatural brightness, from amid the bursting tears that flowed inces- 
santly down her cheeks. It is impossible to describe the mingled look of hope 
and anxiety with which she regarded Sir John. Miss Dorncliff advanced to 
her side ; and, as her tall, commanding figure towered over the bending form of 
her friend, she laid her hand on the baronet’s arm, and, in a low, impressive tone, 
said, “ Can you look upon and crush her?” The appeal was decisive. He pressed 
his wife convulsively to his bosom, and it is no disgrace to his manhood to con- 
fess that his tears mingled with hers. 

“ This is all mighty fine,” at length exclaimed Dacey, whose vulgar perplexity 
was beginning to subside into assurance, “ but I don’t understand it.” 

“ And who supposed that the wallowing swine comprehended the sweetness 
of the ringdove’s note V 9 replied Miss Dorncliff, casting upon him a withering 
look of contempt and scorn. 

“ I don’t deserve that from you, Miss,” said the savage, interpreting the expres- 
sion of her countenance, “ for I meant to help you to a husband.” 

“ Sir John Clavis — I call upon you to turn that man out of the room !” replied 
the lady ; “ let him and his gold vanish ; — and trust for this night to the agency 
of your wife’s friend !” 

Bitter and deep were the curses he muttered, while depositing the coin in his 
leathern wallet ; he would have formed no unapt representation of Satan pre- 
paring baits for sin — but foiled even in this effort. 

“ I recommend you, Dacey, to be silent,” said the baronet. 

“ But others won’t be so,” growled forth the menial, as he retired. He had 
hardly closed the door, when he remembered the papers and parchments he had 
left on the table, and returned with a view of securing them. Miss Dorncliff 
had anticipated the movement, and, placing her hand firmly on the documents, 
signified so decidedly her intention of not suffering their removal, that, baffled 
at all points, he finally withdrew. He could hardly have reached the hall, when 
the officers, who had been waiting outside, made their appearance, in no very 
gentle manner, to make good their seizure. This, however, Miss Dorncliff pre- 
vented, by paying the amount demanded, and the room was soon cleared of such 
graceless company. 

“Now, then,” said the generous girl, looking round her with a happy and 
cheerful countenance, “ now, Sir John, my document must be signed. I claim 
that as my reward. My own lawyer will settle other matters at some future 
date, but that must be done before I either slumber or sleep — the physician 
demands her fee.” 

The baronet seized the pen, which, a short time before, he had taken to 
perform a very different office, and affixed his name to the paper she presented 


142 


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After placing it within her bosom, she remained sometime silent, while the vacil- 
lating man was endeavouring to explain his conduct to his wife, who, loving 
much, forgave all. 

“ It is well,” thought Miss Dorncliff, “ that such men should be wedded to such 
gentle women. My affection would always expire with my esteem ; but- now, she 
loves and believes, as if he had never been about to ruin her reputation, and to 
stigmatize for ever their innocent child ! There must be something mysterious 
in this love, which I cannot comprehend.” She could, however, comprehend 
the heights and depths of the noblest friendship. Her sleep that night was 
light and refreshing; and it was not till the morning was far advanced, that 
the shouts and bustle of an Irish election woke her to consciousness and 
activity. 

It is not to be supposed that Dacey’s bad but enterprizing spirit would rest 
composedly, under detection and consequent exposure. He conjectured, truly, 
that Miss Dorncliff, through some means, which at present he could only suspect, 
had obtained information of his intentions, and was prepared to render null and 
void his basely-earned bargains and nefarious schemes. He was aware that, 
until the election was over, no investigation could be systematically gone into ; 
and he hit upon a cold and villanous design to prevent the inquiry he had so 
much reason to dread. He knew well the character of the opposing candidate 
— a fearless, careless, man — vigorous and imprudent — 

“ Jealous of honour, 

Sudden and quick in quarrel 

who had fought more duels than any man in the county ; and was as often 
called “ Bullet Mahon,” as “ Barry Mahon.” He existed only in an atmosphere 
of democracy ; and his hot, impatient aspect, firm tread, blustering voice, and 
arrogant familiarity, formed a very striking contrast to the polished, weak, but 
gentlemanly, bearing of Sir John Clavis. It was not at all unlikely that a quarrel 
would ensue, before the termination of the election, and many had even betted 
upon it. With the generality of Irishmen, it would have been unavoidable. 
But, though Sir John had never shown the white feather, he was a decidedly 
peaceable man — and was known to be so. Dacey, however, resolved not to 
trust to chance in the matter, and, on the morning of the second day, he was 
closeted with Mahon for nearly an hour. When the candidates appeared on the 
ill-constructed hustings, to greet their respective constituents, it appeared evident 
that Mahon was overboiling with rage at some k iown or supposed injury. Sir 
John’s address was mild, and more than usually facetious — a style better under- 
stood and appreciated in England than in the sister island ; he alluded to, without 
exulting at, the favourable state of the poll; and, after a short and cheering 
exhortation to his friends, resumed his seat. 

When Mahon prepared to address the crowd, he swung his body uneasily 
from side to side, looking, when wrapt up in his huge white coat, as the per- 
sonification of those unhappy polar bears who suffer confinement in our 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 


143 


menageries. At last, elevating his right arm, as if threatening total annihilation 
to all who even differed from him in opinion, he began one of those inflammatory 
addresses that have been followed up by so many second-rate agitators in modern 
times ; he talked of the distresses of the people, until those who had just eaten 
a hearty dinner imagined they were literally starving — and assured them so 
often that they were in a debased state of bondage, that at last they fancied 
they were sinking under their fetters’ weight. “ I would have you beware,” he 
said, exerting to their utmost power his stentorian lungs, “ I would have you all , 
green as well as orange, beware of those who would purchase your votes by 
bribery ! If a man gives a bribe, he will take one ! — and I wonder my opponent 
is not ashamed — I say , ashamed — to show his face here, after the conduct he 
has practised in private !” 

Sir John Clavis called upon Mr. Mahon to explain. 

Mr. Barry Mahon said he did not come there to explain — he came to speak 
— and speak he would — no descendant of an imposter should put him down — if 
Sir John Clavis wished for explanation, he could seek it elsewhere — if he did 
not do so, he was a coward ! 

The language had grown too violent, or, as the interfering parties called it, 
“ too warm,” even for an Irish election ; and the friends of both candidates 
endeavoured to put an end to it, or, at all events, to conclude it in another 
place. As Mr. Mahon refused to make an apology, or even give any explana- 
tion, it became necessary, according to the received and approved code of 
honour, for Sir John Clavis to send a message to the gentleman who had so 
grossly insulted him. 

It was sent, but Clavis so worded it as to leave the matter open to apology. 
This, however, was not taken advantage of, and a “ meeting” for the next morning 
was, of course, agreed upon. 

Since their reconciliation, poor Lady Clavis had been suffering severely from 
agitation ; her mind and body had received a severe shock ; and though the 
happy termination, through her friend’s kind sacrifice, had set her trembling heart 
at ease, her health had not yet mastered the struggle ; she had been confined to 
her chamber, unceasingly attended by Miss Dorncliff. 

About seven o’clock on the evening of the distressing quarrel between the 
candidates, Lady Clavis had just requested her friend to open the window, 
that she might feel the breath of heaven on her fevered cheek, even for a few 
moments ; her fine dark eyes were fixed on the setting of a rich autumnal sun, 
which shed its glories over the scattered houses, and converted them into 
dwellings of molten gold. She was reclining on a couch formed of the high- 
backed chairs of the rude apartment, and, as her husband entered, she greeted 
him with inquiries as to the state of the poll. Miss Dorncliff thought within 
herself, that he looked pale and agitated, but did not allude to the circumstance. 
He was hardly seated, when a servant placed a note in Lady Clavis’s hand; 
she just broke the wafer, and, glancing at the contents, burst into tears; Sir 
John perused it with almost the same agitation ; and the intelligence it con- 


144 


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veyed was well calculated to excite sorrow, for it said that the little Madelina 
had been taken dangerously ill, and Mary Conway, the writer, entreated Lady 
Clavis, “ for God’s sake, to come home, if she wished to see the child alive.” 
The mother lost no time in her preparations; she thought not of herself; and 
to Sir John, under existing circumstances, her departure was a relief: he 
kissed and handed her into the carriage ; the door was shut, and the coachman 
preparing to drive off, w T hen Sir John called him to stop. The evening sun had 
set, and the night wind was blowing sharply in the faces of the horses ; the 
baronet pushed the footman away, and, unfastening the door, let the steps down, 
so that he could kneel upon them. 

“ Madelina,” he said, in a low, agitated tone, and in her own dear native 
tongue — “ Madelina, do you from your heart forgive me, for the unkindness I 
have shown — for the injury which, under the influence of a villain, I would have 
done you, and our innocent child V 9 

“ My soul’s life,” she replied, “ why do you ask ? I cannot think of you and 
injury at the same time ; from my heart , I have forgiven you.” She bent her 
head forward to kiss her husband, and the wind blew one of the long locks of 
her raven hair across his face — he seized upon it, as on a treasure. 

“ I must keep this to wear next my heart till ” “ we meet again,” he 

would have added, but the sentence remained unfinished, while he severed the 
ringlet from the rest ; he then extended his hand to Miss Dorncliff, and continued, 
even in a more broken tone, “ You have been her friend, as well as my preserver 
— I commit her to your care !” 

“ How kind and affectionate he has grown !” observed Lady Clavis, as the 
carriage drove on ; “ when this dreadful election is over, and our darling reco- 
vered, we shall be so happy ! — and to you, my dear, dear friend — my more than 
sister — I owe all this ; his first love was not so sweet to me as his returning 
affection ;” and, overcome with many contending feelings, the gentle creature 
sank into a troubled sleep. 

The calm was but the prelude to a storm. How often, when our hopes are 
highest, and our certainties of happiness seem firmest, is the thunder-cloud 
gathering over us that will soon ruin both ! Even at the very moment when 
the wife had the surest confidence in days of enjoyment and repose to come, 
and the friend was luxuriating over the consciousness of a good deed done, they 
were on the very brink of a precipice, from which there was, alas ! no retreat 
Alas ! still more, that a vile hand should have had the power to force them over 
it But thus it is — 


“ Sorrow and guilt, 

Like two old pilgrims guised, but quick and keen 
Of vision, evermore plod round the world, 

To spy out pleasant spots, and loving hearts ; 

And never lack a villian's ready hand 
To work their purpose on them.” 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 


145 

The roads were heavy, and the lumbering carriage and fatted horses little 
accustomed to hasty journeyings ; they had proceeded at the rate of three miles 
or three miles and a half, the hour, and were within five miles of the Abbey, 
when their progress was arrested by a figure on horseback seizing the reins, 
and commanding them to stop. “ God be thanked for his mercy !” ejaculated a 
well-known voice; “by his blessin’ it’ll not be too late, and he may be 
saved yet.” 

“ Who saved ? — what do you mean, Mary I” eagerly demanded Miss DornclifF, 
for Lady Clavis was not sufficiently collected to make any inquiry, and only 
looked wildly from the carriage-window. 

“ The masther ! the masther ! — turn the horses’ heads, Leary, as ye value sal- 
vation, or the priest’s blessin’ !” 

“ Explain first, Mary, for this is madness,” replied Miss DornclifF ; “ where — 
how is the child ?” 

“ Here,” she replied, unfolding her cloak, and placing the smiling cherub on 
its mother’s lap. “ I knew misthress ’ud never believe it was alive and well, 
when I hard o’ the trick just to get ye all out o’ the way, my lady — and you too, 
Miss, who unriddled so much before, that he thought you ’d be at it again — the 
villain ! The short an’ the long of it is, that ould rascal tould some lies to the 
other mimber that wants to be, and, on the strength of them lies, him, the other 
man, insulted masther forenent the people ; and they ’d a row ; and the upshot 
of it is that they ’re to fight a jewil to-morrow morning' — Lord save us ! 
— like Turks or Frenchmen; and ’twas he wrote the note — as one let 
on to me, who rode a good horse to tell it — and, troth, grass didn’t grow 
under my feet either. But turn, turn! — we’ll may-be get a help of horses on 
the road ; I ’ll gallop on and have ’em ready, though it ’s as much as we can to 
reach town by daylight.” 

The servants urged the jaded animals to their utmost speed ; and prayers 
mingled with the tears Lady Clavis shed, as she pressed her child to her bosom. 
Miss DornclifF endeavoured to give what she did not possess — hope. She 
knew that Barry Mahon’s bullet was unerring; and, from time to time, she let 
down the front glass to cheer forward the anxious coachman. The horses 
Mary procured on the road were more a hinderance than a help, so restive and 
ignorant were they as to carriage-harness. Never did culprits, who watch for, 
yet dread, the coming day, feel more bitterly than they did when the first thin 
stream of light appeared on the horizon ; the stars, one by one, faded from 

their gaze ; and at last the spire of the church of W appeared like a dark 

speck on the clearing sky. 

“ Forward, forward, my good Leary !” said Miss DornclifF ; “ there ’s the 
church-steeple — hasten now, and reward shall not be wanting.” 

“ It isn’t the reward — it ’s the masther I ’m thinking of,” replied the faithful 
fellow. “ If we had the luck to be on the Dublin road itself, there ’d be some 

chance of help ; but here ” He groaned audibly, and by words of encou- 

19 


146 


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ragement, and a more liberal application of the whip, forced the horses into 
something like a trot. 

“ I can see the masts of the vessels that are lying in the harbour,” exclaimed 
Mary ; “ for God’s sake, hasten, Leary !” 

“ I may as well throw down the reins,” replied Leary ; “ They can only crawl 
this one’s sides are cut with the whip, and that one’s fallen lame, too !” 

“ I could walk faster than the horses can go now,” said Miss Dorncliff. 

“ And so could I, and we will walk,” replied Lady Clavis, rousing all her 
energies. 

“ Do, do, my dearest friend,” retorted Miss Dorncliff, “ for 1 see figures on the 
bridge that cannot be mistaken ; and if we could only get there in time, all could 
be explained.” 

Lady Clavis sprung from the carriage with a promptness that astonished 
her friend. She folded her child closely to her bosom, and took the path, across 
some meadows, which led, by a nearer way than the carriage-road, to the field 
that, for centuries, had been the duellist’s meeting-place. The agony of her 
mind may be imagined, but cannot be described. There was her husband — 
every step rendered him more visible — she pressed onward — and her child was 
rocked by the panting of her bosom. The ground is measured — she flew with- 
out disturbing the dew that trembled on the grass — repeatedly she raised and 
waved her arm, eager to arrest attention — in vain ! 

Man to man stood opposed — not in spirited combat, but with cold murdering 
designs on each other. She screamed loud and fearfully, and her scream was 
answered by a fiendish laugh, which seemed to proceed from the hollow of a 
blighted tree that stood in her pathway ; as she passed it, the bad face of Dacey 
glared upon her with bitter exultation. She shrank involuntarily from his ken, 
and the report of a pistol struck upon her ear with appalling distinctness ; it 
was followed by another, and the next minute saw her kneeling by the side of 
him whom she had loved with all the fervour of the glowing south, and all the 
fidelity of our colder climes ; the innocent child crept from her arms over his 
bosom, and pressed her little lips to those of her dead father. Lady Clavis 
motioned off the people, who wished to remove the body, and, with fearful 
calmness, unbottoned the bosom of his shirt, and looked intently on the wound 
and the oozing blood. She attempted to unfasten it still more ; but started 
back as if some new horror had been displayed, when the tress of hair he had 
severed from her head the night before, appeared literally resting on his heart. 
Tears did not dim her eyes, which became fixed and motionless ; and her whole 
figure assumed a frightful rigidity. The scene was even too much for Ellen 
DornclifPs firmness; she fainted while endeavouring to take the child from the 
remains of its ill-starred parent. 

“ I T ’ s the las t of the line, sure enough !” exclaimed an old keener, who had 
watched the melancholy proceeding ; " for a girl, and such a girl, if report says 
true, has no hoult on the land ; ill got — ill gone !” 


THE LAST OF THE LINE. 


147 


My tale is told, and many will recognize it as over true. Lady Cla vis’s intel- 
lect never recovered the shock it received, and some years afterwards she died 
in a convent in Catalonia. The property of Cla vis passed into other hands ; and 
those who obtained it were generous and honourable enough to settle upon Lady 
Cla vis and her child a larger income than they would have been entitled to, had 
there even been legal proof of the marriage, which, it was generally supposed, 
could not be obtained, or Miss DornclifF would have procured it. So perfect, 
however, was the evidence she had collected of Dacey’s villany, that he was 
never suffered to enjoy his ill-gotten wealth. I remember him in extreme old 
age — a hated, mischievous, drivelling idiot. Mary and Benjy were “ as happy,” 
to use the tale-telling phrase, “ as the days were long and Miss Dorncliff— 
who was a living refutation of all the scandal ever heaped upon the most maligned 
class of persons called old maids — received, in her declining age, more than even 
a child’s attention from Madelina Clavis. 





“WE’LL SEE ABOUT IT.” 



ROM this simple sentence “ we ’ll see about it !” has 
arisen more evil to Ireland than any person, igno. 
rant of the strange union of impetuosity and pro- 
crastination my countrymen exhibit, could well 
believe. They are sufficiently prompt and energetic 
where their feelings are concerned, but, in matters 
of business, they almost invariably prefer seeing 
about , to doing. 

I shall not find it difficult to illustrate this observa- 
tion : — from the many examples of its truth, in high 
and in low life, I select Philip Garraty. 

Philip, and Philip’s wife, and Philip’s children, 
and all the house of Garraty, are employed from 
morning till night in seeing about everything, and, 
consequently, in doing nothing There is Philip — a 
tall, handsome, good-humoured fellow, of about five- 


( 148 ) 




•• WE ’ll see about it.” 


149 


and-thirty, with broad, lazy-looking shoulders, and a smile perpetually lurking 
about his mouth, or in his bright hazel eyes, the picture of indolence and kindly 
feeling. There he is, leaning over what was once a five-barred gate, and leads 
to the hag-yard ; his blue worsted stockings full of holes, which “ the suggan,” 
twisted half-way up the well-formed leg, fails to conceal ; while his brogues (to 
use his own words), if they do let the water in, let it out again. With what 
unstudied elegance does he roll that knotted twine, and then unrol it ; varying 
his occupation by kicking the stones that once formed a wall, into the stagnant 
pool, scarcely big enough for full-grown ducks to sail in. 

But let us take a survey of the premises. 

The dwelling-house is a long rambling abode, much larger than the generality 
of those that fall to the lot of small Irish farmers ; for Philip rents a respectable 
farm, and ought to be “ well to do in the world.” The dwelling looks very 
comfortless, notwithstanding : part of the thatch is much decayed, and the rank 
weeds and damp moss nearly cover it ; the door-posts are only united to the 
wall by a few scattered portions of clay and stone, and the door itself is hanging 
but by one hinge ; the window-frames shake in the passing wind, and some of 
the compartments are stuffed with the crown of a hat, or a “ lock of straw ;” 
very unsightly objects. At the opposite side of the swamp is the hag-yard gate, 
where a broken line of alternate palings and wall betokens that it had been for- 
merly fenced in ; the commodious barn is almost roofless, and the other sheds 
pretty much in the same condition ; the pig-sty is deserted by the grubbing lady 
and her grunting progeny, who are too fond of an occasional repast in the once- 
cultivated garden to remain in their proper abode ; the listless turkeys, and, con- 
tented, half-fatted, geese, live at large and on the public ; but the turkeys, with 
all their shyness and modesty, have the best of it, for they mount the ill-built 
stacks, and select the grain a plaisir. 

“ Give you good morrow, Mr. Philip ; we have had showery weather lately.” 

“ Och,all manner o’ joy to ye, my lady ! — and sure ye ’ll walk in, and sit down ; 
my woman will be proud to see ye. I ’m sartin we ’ll have the rain soon agin, 
for it’s everywhere, like bad luck; and my throat ’s sore wid hurishing thim 
pigs out o’ the garden — sorra a thing can I do all day for watching thim.” 

“ Why do you not mend the door of the sty V’ 

“True for ye, ma’am dear; so I would if I had the nails; and I’ve been 
threat’ning to step down to Mickey Bow, the smith, to ask him to see about it ” 

“ I hear you ’ve had a fine crop of wheat, Philip.” 

“Thank God for all things! You may say that; we had, my lady, a fine 
crop ; but I have always the height of ill luck somehow ; upon my sowkins (and 
that ’s the hardest oath I ever swear), the turkeys have had the most of it : but I 
mean to see about setting it up safe, to-morrow.” 

“But, Philip, I thought you had sold the wheat, standing.” 

“ It was all one as sould ; only it ’s a bad world, ma’am dear, and I ’ve no 
luck. Says the steward to me, says he, I like to do things like a man of busi- 
ness ; so, Mister Garraty, just draw up a bit of an agreement that you deliver 


150 


“ WE ’ll see about it.” 


over the wheat-field to me, on sich a day, standing as it is for sich a sum ; and 
I ’ll sign it for ye, and thin there can be no mistake — only let me have it by this 
day week. Well, to be sure, I came home full o’ my good luck, and I tould the 
wife ; and, on the strength of it, she must have a new gown. And sure, says 
she, Miss Hennessy is just come from Dublin, wid a shop-full of goods ; and, on 
account that she’s my brother’s sister-in-law T ’s first cousin, she’ll let me have 
the first sight o’ the things, and I can take my pick, and we ’ll have plinty of 
time to see about the agreement to-morrow* Well, I don’t know how it was, but 
the next day we had no paper, nor ink, nor pens in the house ; I meant to send 
the gossoon to Miss Hennessy’s for all — but forgot the pens. So, when I was 
seeing about the ’greement, I bethought of the ould gander ; and while I was 
pulling as beautiful a pen as ever ye laid yer two eyes upon, out of his wing, he 
tattered my hand with his bill in such a manner that sorra a pen I could hould 
for three days. Well, at last I wrote it out like print, and takes it myself to the 
steward. — Good evening to you, Mr. Garraty, says he. Good evening kindly, 
sir, says I ; I ’ve got the ’greement here, sir, says I, pulling it out, as I thought 
— but — I only cotch the paper it was wrapt in, to keep it from the dirt of the 
tobacco, that was loose in my pocket for want of a box ; so I turned out what 
little bits o’ things I had in it, and there was a grate hole that ye might drive all 
the parish rats through at the bottom, which the wife promised to see about mend- 
ing as good as six months before. Well, I saw the sneer on his ugly mouth (for 
he ’s an Englishman), and I turned it off with a laugh, and said air holes were 
comfortable in hot weather, and sich-like jokes, and that I ’d go home and make 
another ’greement. ’Greement! for what? — says he, laying down his grate 
outlandish pipe. Whew ! may-be ye don’t know, says I. Not I, says he. The 
wheat-field, says I. Why, says he, didn’t I tell you then, that you must bring 
the ’greement to me by that day week? — and that was (by the same token 
pulling a red memorandum book out of his pocket), let me see — exactly this day 
three weeks. Do you think, Mr. Garraty, he goes on, that I was going to wait 
upon you? I don’t lose my papers in the Irish fashion. Well, that last set 
me up — and I had the ill luck to knock him down ; and, the coward, what does 
he do but takes the law o’ me — and I was cast, and lost the sale of the wheat, 
and was ordered to pay ever so much money : well, I didn’t care to pay it then, 
but gave an engagement ; and I meant to see about it — but forgot ; and, all in a 
jiffy, came a thing they call an execution — and, to stop the cant, I was forced 
to borrow money from that tame negur, the exciseman — and it ’s a terrible case 
to be paying interest for it still. n 

“ But, Philip, you might give up or dispose of a part of your farm. I know you 
could get a good sum of money for that rich meadow by the river.” 

“True for ye, ma’am dear, and I’ve been seeing about it for a long time, but 
somehow I have no luck. Just as ye came up, I was thinking to myself that the 
gale-day is passed, and all one as before ; yarra a pin’s worth have I for the rint ; 
and the landlord wants it as bad as I do, though it ’s a shame to say that of a 
gintleman ; for, jist as he was seeing about some old custodium, or something of 


“ WE ’ll see about it.” 


151 


the sort, that had been hanging over the estate ever since he came to it, the 
sheriff’s officers put executioners in the house ; and I am sartin he ’ll be racking 
me for the money ; indeed, the ould huntsman tould me as much ; but I must 
see about it : not, indeed, that it ’s much good, for I have no luck.” 

“ Let me beg of you, Philip, not to take such an idea into your head ; do not 
lose a moment : you will be utterly ruined if you do. Why not apply to your 
father-in-law ? — he is able to assist you ; for at present you only suffer from tem- 
porary embarrassment.” 

“ True for ye, my lady ; and, by the blessing of God, I ’ll see a, bout it.” 

“ Then go directly, Philip.” 

“ Directly ! I can’t, ma’am dear, on account of the pigs ; and sorra a one I 
have but myself to keep them out of the cabbages ; for I let the woman and the 
grawls go to the pattery at Killaun ; it ’s little pleasure they see, the craturs !” 

“ But your wife did not hear the huntsman’s story V * 

“ Och ! ay 4 id she ; but, unless she could give me a sheaf o’ bank notes, where 
would be the ^jod of her staying ? — but I ’ll see about it.” 

“ Immediately, then, Philip ; think upon the ruin that may come — nay, that 
must come, if you neglect this matter: your wife, too — your family reduced 
from comfort to starvation — your home desolate — ” 

“ Asy, my lady ! — don’t be after breaking my heart intirely ; thank God, I have 
seven as fine flahulagh children as ever peeled pratee, and all under twelve years 
ould : and sure I ’d lay down my life tin times over for every one o’ them : and 
to-morrow for sartin — no — to-morrow — the hurling ; I can’t to-morrow ; but the 
day after, if I ’m a living man, I'll see about it.” 

Poor Philip ! his kindly feelings were valueless, because of his unfortunate 
habit. Would that this were the only example I could produce of the ill effects 
of that dangerous little sentence — “ I'll see about it /” Oh, that the sons and 
daughters of the fairest island that ever heaved its green bosom above the surface 
of the ocean, would arise and be doing what is to be done, and never again rest 
contented with “ seeing about it !” 



J 



THE B ANNO W POSTMAN. 



E ’S taking his own time this evening, I ’ll say that ; 
for the sun ’s as good as set, and no sign of him yet. 
Can you spy him out?” 

“No, colleen; how d’ye think my ould eyes could 
see him whin yours can’t ? But, Anty, honey, ye ’re 
mighty unasy about the postman ; d’ye expict a new 
riban’, or a piece o’ tape, or some sugar-candy, or — 
a love letther, Anty? Oh ! Anty, Anty ! — don’t blush 
after that fashion ; ould as my eyes are, I can see yer 
rosy cheek getting quite scarlet.” 

“ I ’ll tell ye what, Grey Lambert,” replied the lassie 
to the old man, who was literally leaning on “ the top 
of his staff,” under the shadow of the walls of a singu- 
larly fine and perfect castle of ancient days ; “ I ’ll 
jist tell ye, it ’ll be long enough afore I ’ll come to see 
ye agin, out o’ pure good-nature, in yer unchristian-like 

(1521 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


153 


ould place, if ye talk afther that fashion to a young crature like me, that niver 
turned to the like ; d’ye think I ’ve no dacency l Sure ye ’re ould enough to 
forget love letthers, any way.” 

“ That ’s true, Anty ; an ould man of threescore and sixteen hasn’t much 
to do wid what are called love letthers ; but, may-be, there ’s a differ betwixt 
love letthers and letthers o’ love ; and sure there ’s one still that sinds that last 
to his poor grandfather ; and from beyant the salt seas too.” 

“Well, ’tis a comfort, sure enough; but I often wonder that ye a’n’t affeard 
to stay in such a place as this, widout anything wid ye, but Bang, the baste, 
that ’s almost as ould as yerself— poor Bang !” And Bang pushed his nose into 
Anty’s hand. 

There was something picturesque in the appearance of the pair, who awaited 
the postman’s coming — for such was really the case ; the young maiden expected 
a lover’s letter ; the aged man hoped for a remembering token from a solitary 
descendant. “ Grey Lambert,” as he was called, had taken up his abode in a 
corner of the castle under whose shadow they stood — the castle of Coolhull — 
and no entreaty could induce him to leave the lonely dwelling. He was a sin- 
gular, but a very fine-looking, person; wore neither hat nor cap; never cut 
either his beard or hair, which vrere purely, perfectly, white, and flowed over 
his shoulders, and down his breast, even below a leather girdle that encircled 
his coarse frieze wrapping coat ; his feet were bare ; his forehead high and bald ; 
his dress clean, betokening singularity, but not poverty; and he had been a 
traveller in his youth — a sailor — a soldier — some said a pirate ; but that, I firmly 
assert, never could have been the case, for Lambert was the gentlest of old men ; 
children and animals (who seem to have an instinctive dread of bad people) all 
loved him ; and on Sunday evenings the village urchins, and their little cur dogs, 
visited him in the castle, or sat at his feet on the green sward, while he recounted 
tales and adventures of other lands. 

Anty was a merry, laughing, blue-eyed lass, somewhat short, and without one 
good feature in her face ; yet the gipsy was esteemed pretty. It was really very 
provoking — she was anything but pretty, and yet it was absolutely impossible to 
look on her face and think so ; she had such coaxing smiles, and that heartfelt 
charm — a sweet, low voice — “ an excellent thing in woman ;” and so many “ ah, 
do’s,” and “ ah, don’ts ;” and a trick of blushing — and blushes, stealing over a 
pure white skin, are, it must be confessed, very agreeable things indeed to look 
upon ; then there was a cheerfulness, a joyousness about her, perfectly irresistible ; 
at wake or pattern she had ail the best boys at her command, and how she 
laughed at them ! But I may affirm — now that she is not before me — the little 
hussy was anything but pretty. 

Bang was certainly a venerable relic of canine antiquity — tall and grey, 
haughty and stately, of royal Danish descent, and his courtesies had an air of 
kingly condescension ; when he noticed even the bettermost dogs of the parish, 
there was so much aristocratic bearing about the dignified brute, that they, one 
and all, shrunk from his approach. But he was faithful to his master — night 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


154 

and day by his side; and always paid particular attention to Anastasia 
McQueen, who, strange to say, was a very frequent visiter at the dilapidated 
castle; nay, was almost daily seen trudging towards it; — her short scarlet 
cloak meeting the broad hem of her blue stuff petticoat, while the hood only 
half-covered a profusion of deep nut-brown hair (I feel it here a duty to my 
country peasant girls to say, that they generally have long and most luxuriant 
tresses, and, womanlike, are not a little proud of them) ; and, from her well- 
turned, but red arm, usually hung a basket, containing such presents as a Ban- 
now maiden could present ; dried fish, fresh cockles, delicate butter, barley or 
oaten cakes, thin and curling, or new laid eggs. She certainly paid very great 
attention to the old man, and he was much attached to his lively visiter. 

“ May-be it ’s long since ye heard from young Pat Lambert?” she inquired, 
after caressing Bang. 

“ True, love, dear ; it seems long to one like me— a poor ould, very ould, man , 
may-be he ’s forgotten his grandfather.” 

“ No, that he ’s never done, I ’m sartin sure ; he ’s as thrue-hearted a boy as 
iver crossed the sea ; that I know, and I take it very unkind o’ ye to say he ’d 
forget you.” 

“ Well, Anty, whin I write agin I ’ll tell him that there ’s some don’t forget 
him , any way.” 

“ Oh !” said Anty, blushing in good earnest, “ ye need not say that ; sure, in a 
Christian country, every body remimbers their neighbour. — How beautiful the 
sea looks, as if there niver was an end to it !” 

“ How beautiful the sea looks!” repeated Grey Lambert, smiling and shaking 
his- head at the same time: “ Well, Anty, I see ye’re an admirer o’ the beauties 
of natur. The sea is ever beautiful to my thinking ; whin the great waves foam 
and lash the shore, and whin they toss big ships, such as you niver saw, up and 
down without any trouble in life — then ’t is beautiful ; and whin it sleeps under 
the setting sunbames, as it does now, it is beautiful. How well ye see the 
entrance into Watherford harbour from where ye stand ! — though a score o’ 
miles and more from ye. Well, I love this ould castle for the prospect ; but it ’s 
a grand place, and I never could think to live anywhere else, now. The thick- 
ness of the walls might be one of the world’s wonders ; then the gometry stair- 
case, and the curious writing on the hard stones that nobody iver understood 
yet ; and the grate oak bames. The jewil of a castle, ye are, my darlint ! — to 
think how bravely ye stood aginst ould Oliver, the black villain ! Och ! many 
a brave heart — many a bright eye — many a smile dancing like the sunbames on 
the sea, has been in ye, whin ye stood with yer high walls and turrets in the 
morning light ; but now ye ’re ould, and even yer stones look withered, and the 
cow and the wild goat shelter where princes stood ; and the owl screams where 
the harp sounded; and I, a poor worm of the earth, live to see it, whin their 
noble bones make part of the sod I stand on !” 

Lambert’s apostrophe to his beloved castle was lost on Anty, who eagerly 
exclaimed, “ There he is ! — there he is ! Now I ’ll run and meet him, and see 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


155 

if he has got a letther for you.” Away she flew, swift as an arrow, to meet 
John Williams, postman, and, it may be truly said, carrier, to the united 
parishes of Bannow, Kilkaven, and Duncormuck, for above thirty years. Even 
in these isolated spots people cannot do without news ; it is almost necessary to 
existence. Twice each week John Williams still journeys to the nearest post- 
town, and conveys “ the leading journal of Europe,” the Fashionable Post, the 
Wexford and Waterford Papers, and others, to the news-loving inhabitants. 
Honest John is a heedless, good-tempered fellow ; but a very jewel of a post- 
man. He had been originally engaged only as a circulating medium for letters 
from Wexford to Bannow; but he was either bribed, or coaxed, or both, into 
executing commissions for everybody who had commissions to execute. John 
Williams’s list was regularly made out; and ribands, tea, candles, sugar, 
books, paper, music, gowns, and even caps, garnished his Rosinante— for when 
his orders were many, John was obliged to take his steed ; not that he ever 
ventured to ride the poor lame beast, whom he could out-tire at any time ; but 
he walked in a companionable manner with it, in and out of Wexford ; and, in 
truth, their caparisons were most extraordinary. 

When Anty met him, his loose drab coat was hardly secured by a solitary 
button, and his leather bags dangled over his shoulders ; his “ cawbeen” on one 
side of his grey shaggy head, his scratch wig on the other, and his “ doodeen” 
serving a double purpose — keeping his nose warm, and exhilarating his spirits ; 
the poor horse, more fatigued than its wiry conductor, eyeing the green 
straggling hedgerows, and the close turf, and loitering to catch a mouthful as 
he passed. At either side his neck hung two blue bandboxes, filled, doubtless, 
with multifarious finery ; while a coil of thick cable, like a huge Boa, passed 
over his head, and held, suspended, ten or twelve flats of cork, bespoke by the 
captain of a coal vessel lying at Bannow quay — three new kites, four skipping 
ropes, ten tops, two bags of marbles, a dozen slates (for Master Ben), a pair 
of pole screens (for the lady at the big house), and some blankets ; all, of 
course, so carelessly papered, that they had more than half escaped from their 
confinement. 

“ Good even’, and God save ye, Misther John !” quoth the breathless lass. 
The postman was never given to much speaking, and nodded. “ May-be ye 
wouldn’t have a bit of a letther for Grey Lambert?” John stopped, and so did 
the horse ; while John took from his bag a long, narrow, dirty-looking letter — 
presented it — replaced his bag, and journeyed on. Anty stopped, and looked 
after him ; “ John, John, I want to spake to ye.” John again stopped. “ I 
wanted to ask ye, if so be that ye found — I mean met — a — a — I thought, may- 
be, ye might have — ah, John ! ye know what — for poor Anty ?” John took the 
pipe from his mouth, and simply said : 

“ May-be ye ’d tell a body who likes plain spakeing what ye ’re after ?” 

“ Well, thin, John, have ye a letther for me V 9 

“ Yes ; why didn’t ye ask me that a while ago, and not give me the throuble 
of taking off my bag twice ?” 


156 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


“ Why didn’t you give it me, and I to the fore? Sure ye knew ye had it.” 

“ Why look ye, Anty McQueen, I have been thirty years a postman ; and I 
have always done what the back of the letter tould me ; and see, the direction 
on it is — ‘Anty McQueeen, Hill Side, Bannow, County of Wexford, Ireland — 
post-paid— to the care of John Williams, Bannow postman ; to be kept till called 
for.’ Sure it was no business o’ mine to give it ye till ye called for it, or, what 
I consider the same thing, asked for it.” 

Anty took the letter, and, placing it in her bosom, turned towards the old 
castle, to give to Grey Lambert his epistle. John pursued his path, until he 
arrived at the village Public. There, what a crowd awaited his coming! 
“John, what’s the news?” — “John, the paper.” — “John — oh, John, don’t 
mind ’em, but give me my cap ! I hope it isn’t in that bandbox that ’s had the 
dance in the mud. There — John, honey — don’t ‘ squeege’ it so ! — sure no cap 
can stand a ‘ squeeging !’ ” — “ John, is my bonnet come ? Och ! meal-a-murder ! 
what made Miss Lerady put an Orange riban’ in my beautiful English straw ?” 
“ John, I hope ye didn’t forget the tobacco ?” — “ John, agra — the two ounces 
o’ green tay for my granny.” — “ John, my twinty-four marbles.” — “ John, och, 
John ! sure it ’s not come to that wid ye, that ye ’d forget the green silk handker- 
chief!” — “John,” said a fine-looking fellow, pushing through the circle, “John, 
did ye get the thing I tould ye of?” John winked; and from his waistcoat 
pocket drew forth a very little parcel, wrapped up in white paper. The young 
man took it, smiled, and soon after there was a bustle at the far window ; for 
the parcel contained a plain gold ring, which the saucy youth was endeavour- 
ing to try on the finger of pretty Letty, the gentle daughter of mine host of 
the “ Public.” — “ John, any letthers for me ?” inquired the bustling man of the 
big shop — “ One, Darby, very like a bill.” — “ Humph !” said Darby. — “ Did ye 
bring the doctor’s stuff for father?” asked Minny Corish. — “Och! murder-in- 
Irish ! sure ye ’re not afther forgetting the five yards o’ red stuff,” exclaimed 
no less a person than Mrs. Cassidy herself, “ and I wanting to quilt it for a 
petticoat, to keep my ould bones from freezing !”■ — “ John,” said a village lounger, 
who expected nothing, and yet wanted to say something — “ John, why d’ye 
wear yer wig over yer hair?” “ Why,” replied John, dryly, “ sure ye wouldn’t 
have me wear my hair over my wig.” — “ John, I take shame that I didn’t offer 
ye this afore,” and the landlord presented a large glass of whiskey to the post- 
man, who. drank it off, remarking afterwards — “ thrue Parliament, to be sure,” 
which raised a general laugh. — “ Come, John, ye ’re enough to set a body mad,” 
said fussy Tom Tennison, who was ever in a bustle about something or other, 
“ Master Ben has been here more nor an hour, waiting to rade us the news, 

and there ye stand, taking the things out as asy as ; can’t ye give us the 

paper ?” “ No — I say, no — not till it ’s yer turn, Mister Fussy ; take the patthern 
o’ yer manners from Mister Ben ; see how quiet he stands, as the song says — 
tall and straight as a popilar tree ;’ and two of his bran new slates cracked by 
that devil of a horse. Arrah, don’t be bothering me, all o’ ye ; ye forget, so ye 
do, that I have five or six places to go to yet ; if ye taze me afther this fashion, 


THE BANNOVV POSTMAN. 


157 

hang me, but ye must get another postman ; the moment ye see me, ye ’re like a 
pack o’ Curnell Piggot’s hounds in full cry, afther a hare ; can’t ye larn patience? 
sure everybody knows it’s a vartue.” 

John’s next resting-place was the Parsonage; such a lovely spot — just what a 
parsonage ought to be ; only look, is it not perfectly delicious ? That softly 
swelling meadow, over which the evening mist is stealing, paled off from the 
mossy lawn that fays and fairies might delight to revel on ; the lowly, ye 
elegantly-thatched, cottage ; the green-house, the flower-borders — did you ever 
see such splendid flowers ? — there — such balsams — such peonies — such a myrtle 
— such roses ! roses red, white, pure white, the maiden’s blush, the damask, 
and the many-coloured Lancaster, not rivalling each other, but uniting to 
charm sight and smell by their combined beauty and fragrance. Ah ! there is 
Marianne amongst the lilies, fit model for a sculptor, alike lovely in person and 
mind. And the eldest, Henrietta, noble and dignified, though very different 
from Marianne ; conscious of her magnificent beauty, yet condescending and 
benevolent to the poorest peasant. Then, Ellen the youngest; not the hand- 
somest, but certainly the most useful ; a perfect Goody Two-shoes, with more 
wisdom at fifteen than most women at fifty. The postman is to them all a most 
welcome visiter. “Oh, John, is it you? Do give me papa’s and mamma’s 
letters.” “ Oh, don’t, Marianne !” said the young Ellen ; “ don’t take them all 
yourself; do let me have the newspapers, at least, to give papa.” “John,” 
inquired Hetta, “ the netting-silk, and the silver bodkin — I hope you have chosen 
a nice one — and the two skipping-ropes, for my sisters; — thank you.” “All 
right, I hope, Miss.” “ Thank you, all quite right ; will you come up and take 
something, John?” “No, Miss, I humbly thank ye, all the same.” “John, fell 
me — have you got a letter for poor Mrs. Clavery ?” “ Yes, Miss.” “ Ah, now 

I am happy ; poor woman, she will be so delighted !” 

“ There,” thought John to himself, as he passed on — “ there, that is what I call 
the true breed of the gentry. Such a born beauty as that to think of a poor 
sorrow-struck woman ! Ah, the thick blood without any puddle, for ever ! — 
that ’s the sort that warms the heart.” 

Mrs. Cla very’s story will be best told in her own words, as she herself related 
it to the family at the Parsonage, a few months before John brought her the letter 
that made Miss Henrietta so happy. 

One tranquil evening in autumn, a pale, delicate young woman rested her 
hand on the gate that opened to the green sloping lawn which fronted the 
Parsonage-house ; uncertain whether or not she might venture to raise the latch, 
she gazed wistfully on the group of children who were playing on the green. 
Although in the veriest garb of misery, there was nothing of the common beggar 
in her appearance ; and the two little ones, who clung to her tattered cloak, 
were better covered than their mother. She carried, on her back, a young sickly- 
looking infant, and its weak cries arrested the attention of the good pastor’s 
youngest daughter, who bade her enter, in that gentle tone which speaks of hope 
and comfort to the breaking heart. How much is in a kindly voice ! When the 


‘f 


158 THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 

woman had partaken of food and rest, and remained a few days at the Parsonage, 
she thus told her tale : — 

“ May God reward ye ! — for ye have fed the hungry, and ye have clothed 
the naked, and ye have spoken of hope to her that thought of it no more ; and 
ye have looked like heaven’s own angels on one who had forgot the sight o’ 
smiles. May God’s fresh blessing be about ye !— may ye niver want ! But a 
poor woman’s prayer is nothing ; only I am certain sure the Almighty will grant 
ye a long life, and a happy death, for yer kindness to one who was lone and 
desolate in a could world. It ’s little matter where one like me was born, only 
I came of dacent, honest people, and it could not be said that any one belonging ^ 
to me or mine ever wronged man or mortal ; the boys were brave and just — 
the girls well-looking and virtuous : — seven of us under one roof; but there was 
full and plinty of everything — more especially love, that sweetens all. Well, I 
married ; and I may say a more sober, industrious boy never broke the world’s 
bread than my Thomas — my Thomas ! I ask yer pardon, ladies ; but my heart 
swells when I think that may-be he ’s gone to the God who gave him to me, 
first for a blessing, then for a heart-trial.” 

The poor woman wept; and the father of the family she was addressing, 
adopting the figurative language which the Irish so well understand, observed, 

“ The gardener prunes the vine even to bleeding, and suffers the bramble to grow 
its own way.” 

“ That ’s true ; thank ye, sir, for that sweet word of comfort,” she replied, 
smiling faintly ; “ it ’s happy to think of God’s care — the only care that ’s over 
the poor, though it seems ungrateful to say that to those who are so extraordi- 
nary kind to me. Well, we had a clane cabin — a milk-white cow — a trifle of 
poultry — two or three pigs — indeed, every comfort in life, according to our 
station, and thankful we were for them. Time passed as happy as heart could 
wish, and one babe came, and another ; but the eldest now was the third then, 
for it pleased God to take the two first in a fever ; and bad, sure enough, was 
the trouble, for my husband took it, and there he lay, off and on, for as good 
as four months ; and then the rint got behindhand, and we were forced to sell 
the cow : one would think the baste had knowledge, for when she was going off 
to the fair (and, by the same token, it was my brother-in-law’s sister’s son that 
druv her), she turned back and mowed; ay, as nataral as a child that was 
quitting the mother. Well ; we never could rise the price of a cow agin, and 
that was a sore loss to us, for God sent two young ones the next time, and betwixt 
the both I could niver get a minit to do the bit o’ spinning or knitting that the 
landlord’s wife expected as a yearly compliment. She was not a born lady ; 
and they ’re the worst to the poor. Musharoon gentry ! that spring up and buy 
land, hand over head, from the raale sort, that are left, in the long run, with- 
out cross or coin to bless themselves with ; all owing to their generosity. Well, 
to make up for that, I was forced to give up some of my best hens, as duty 
fowl, to the lady, on account that she praised their handsome toppings. That 
wasn’t all ; — the pigs got the measles ; and we might have sould them to ad 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


159 


vantage, but my husband says, says he, 4 Mary, we have had disease and death 
in our own house ; and don’t let us be the manes o’ selling unwholesome mate, 
upon no account — becase it brings ill health, and we to answer for it, when no- 
thin’ will be to the fore but the honest deeds and the roguish ones, straight 
aginst each other, and no one to judge them but the Almighty — the one who 
knows the rights of all;’ — that was true for him. Well; we might have got 
up agin, for my poor Thomas worked like any negur to the full ; but just after 
we had sowed our little field of wheat (it was almost at the corner of the land- 
lord’s park, and we depinded on it for the next gale day), nothing could sarve 
the landlord but he must take it out of our hands, without any notice, to plant 
trees upon. I went to my lady, and, to soften her like, took what was left of 
my poor fowl— the cock and all — as a present ; she accepted them very gen- 
teelly, to be sure, and promised we should have another field, and compensation 
money. We waited, and waited, but no sign of it; at last my husband made 
bould to go to the landlord himself, and tould him all that had passed between 
the lady and me. 4 Don’t bother me, man,’ was the answer he made ; 4 com- 
pensation, indeed ! — what compensation am I to have for being out of my rent 
so long, the time ye were sick, and ye without a lase ? And I am sartain my 
wife never promised anything of the sort to the woman.’ 4 1 ask yer pardon, 
sir,’ replied Thomas, civil, of course — for Thomas was always civil to rich or 
poor ; 4 but she did, for my Mary tould me.’ 4 She tould ye a lie, then,’ said 
the landlord ; and my husband fired up. 4 Sir,’ said he, 4 if ye were my equal 
you dar’n’t say the likes o’ that of my Mary, for though she ’s not of gentle 
blood, she’s no liar!’ Then the landlord called my husband an impudent 
blackguard ; and Thomas made answer, that he, being a gentleman, might call 
him what he pleased; but that none should say that of his wife that she did 
not desarve : however, the upshot of the thing was, that we got warning to quit 
all of a suddent : but there was no help for it; as the neighbours said — true 
for them — that Thomas was by no manes so strong a man as before the feaver ; 
and the steward found out some stranger who offered money down on the nail 
for the land, that we had in such prime order. Every one cried shame on the 
landlord, but sure there ’s no justice for the poor ! ’T was a sorrowful parting, 
for somehow a body gets fond of the bits of trees even, that grow up under 
their own eye ; and I was near my lying-in, and the troubles came all at once, 
and all we could get to shelter us was a damp hole of a place. My husband 
got plenty of work ; and though it wasn’t in natur not to lament by -gone com- 
forts, yet sure the love was to the good, firm — ay, firmer than ever — and no 
blight was on our name, nor isn’t to this day — thank God for it ! — for nobody 
breathing can say, Thomas, or Mary, Clavery, ye owe me the value of a thra- 
neen. Oh ! but that’s a fine thing and a cheering after all ! Well, the change 
of air, and the fretting, and one thing or other, made me very weakly ; and we 
lost the fellow twin to this one; it was happy for the darlint — but it was 
heart-scalding to see it peeking and peeking — wastin’ and wastin’, and to want 
the drop of wine, or the morsel of mate, that might keep it to be a blessing to 


160 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


its parent’s grey hairs. It was then, just after my child’s death, that, to drive 
the sorrow from his heart, Thomas took a little to the drop ; and yet he wasn’t 
like other men, that grow cross and fractious — he was always gentle to me and 
the young ones ; but in the end it ruined us, as it does all who have any call to 
it — for he was as fine a young man, though I say it, as ye could see in a day’s 
walk — standing six feet two, in his stocking vamps, and admired for his beauty ; 
and he went to the next town to sell my little spinning, that I had done to 
keep the dacent stitch on the childer; and, as was fated, I suppose, who should 
be there but a recruiting sargent — and when the drink ’s in, the wit ’s out, and 
he listed — listed! — And the parting — oh! but I thought the life would lave 
me — sure I followed him to the place of embarkment, and there they druv me 
from him ; and I stood on the sea-shore, and saw him on the deck of that black 
ship, his arms crossed over his breast like one melancholy mad ; and it was long 
before I believed he was really gone — gone — gone; and that there was no 
voice to cheer me — for these did nothing but cry for food : it was wicked, but 
I wished to die, for my heart felt breaking. The little left me was soon gone ; 
I was among strangers — I could not bear to go to my own people or place, 
because I was more like a shame, and my spirit was too high to be looked down 
on. I have travelled from parish to parish, doing a bit of work of any kind when 
I could get it, and trusting to good Christians to give something to the desolate 
children when all else failed.” 

“ Have you never heard from your husband ?” 

“ Oh, sir, he sends his letters to Watherford, to the care of one I know, but I 
cannot often hear, the distance is so great.” 

“ Did he not forward you money V* 

“ Three pounds ; but we owed thirty shillings of it, betwixt rent for the last 
hole we lived in, and two or three other matters. I was overjoyed to be able to 
send the money, for the debts lay heavy on my heart ; and, to be sure, the 
children wanted many a little thing, and the remainder soon went.” 

The good pastor and his family were deeply interested in Mary Clavery’s 
simple tale; and, on further inquiry, its truth was fully established. It was 
also found that her husband was in a regiment then at Jamaica, commanded by 
the clergyman’s brother, a gallant and distinguished officer. The story circu- 
lated very quickly, in a neighbourhood where every little circumstance is an 
event ; and, to the credit of my favourite Bannow, be it known that, on the 
very same Sabbath morning, in the Protestant church and Catholic chapel, a 
collection was made for the benefit of the distressed family. Another week 
saw Mary and her children in quiet possession of a small two-roomed cabin ; 
the parish minister and parish priest conversing at the door, as to the best 
manner of procuring the industrious woman continued employment; and 
the three young ladies very busily engaged in arranging new noggins ana 
plates, and all manner of cottage furniture, to their own sweet taste. Then, 
Farmer Corish gave Mrs. Clavery a sack of potatoes — Master Ben engaged to 

teach” the children for nothing — Mrs. Cassidy sent, as her offering, a fine fat 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


161 

little pig — Mrs. Corish presented a motherly well-educated goose, capable of 
bringing up a numerous family respectably — good Mr. Rooney, as considerate 
and worthy an old bachelor as ever lived (how angry I am with good men for 
being old bachelors!) sent her a setting hen and seven eggs; — in short, the 
little cottage and garden were stocked so quickly, and yet so well, and the poor 
woman was so grateful, that she could hardly believe the reality of what had 
occurred. Her kind friends at the Parsonage, however, saw that something 
more was wanting to make their protege perfectly happy. What that was, 
need I tell? — my lady readers have surely guessed it already, and even the 
gentlemen may have found it out. The clergyman, without acquainting Mrs. 
Clavery, had written to his brother, mentioning all the particulars, and begging 
Thomas’s discharge; the last post had brought him a letter, stating that his 
request was granted. 

But the three graces (as my young friends of the parsonage were always 
called) denied themselves the pleasure of communicating the joyful tidings ; 
leaving the expected letter from Thomas Clavery himself to tell the news. 
They could not, however, forego the gratification of witnessing the joy the 
cottagers would feel when the information was communicated, that the husband 
and the father was on his homeward journey, and they hastily followed the post- 
man to Mary’s abode. 

John’s ne^t resting-place was at an old weather-beaten but spacious man- 
sion, somewhat out of the Bannow district, and close on the beach. It belonged 
to a gentleman whose health obliged him to reside for a time on the con- 
tinent, but who had lent his house to his relative, Sir James Horatio Banks, 
M.P., for the summer, as the sea-bathing is very good all along the Wexford 
coast: consequently. Sir James Horatio, his lady, and all his little ones and 
servants, were, fortunately, only birds of passage — I beg that this fact may be 
clearly understood, as I would on no account have the family confounded with 
our own dear resident gentry. Sir James Horatio Banks, M.P., was a great 
man iri his own way, and a strange way it was. Anything but a spendthrift, 
in the usual acceptation of the word, and yet in perpetual embarrassments ; for 
he was always at law ; — never, to do him justice, missed an opportunity of liti- 
gation, whether for a thousand pounds or a thousand pence — an estate or an 
acre. Long Chancery suits were his delight, and he anticipated Term with 
absolute rapture. Most people complain of the law’s delays. Not so Sir 
James Horatio Banks. He was always anxious to retard its decisions ; so 
much so that he was once designated, in open court, “ a filthy pebble in the 
wheel of justice.” He stood a contested election, or, rather, Lady Banks got 
him through it, and triumphantly speechified on the hustings; but the many 
thousands expended on that memorable occasion, would have broken his heart 
to a certainty — if, fortunately, three fresh lawsuits had not thence arisen to 
console him. It was some comfort to the Irish to discover that his mother had 
been a native of Wales; for he was very mean in his household expenses 
which they asserted, could not have been the case, had he been “ raale Irish.’ 

21 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


162 

In truth he had a miserly aspect ; a thin spare body, covered with a parch- 
ment-like skin, a rattish expression of countenance, and little peering grey eyes 
that seemed eternally seeking for flaws in everything. He used to ride a bony 
black horse, and always wore overgrown jack-boots, a threadbare long coat, a 
flapped hat — that sometimes answered the purpose of an umbrella — and -invari- 
ably fastened a pair of horse-pistols to the pommel of his saddle. One of our 
Bannow poets made the following rhyme on the worthy member, and contrived, 
in a crowd, to tie them to the tail of his horse. — How he mourned that he could 
never discover the author ! — 

“ The Divil Sir Jimmy to Parliament sint ; 

To plaze his master, Sir Jimmy he wint, 

On his ould black horse, that look’d like a hack ; 

Success ! cried the boys ; may ye niver come back V* 

Indeed the peculiarities of the family afforded much amusement to the neigh- 
bourhood where they resided for a time. Lady Banks was the very opposite 
of her husband ; possessed, as a brother sportsman once said of her, “ blood, 
bone, and beauty;” wore a scarlet riding habit; hunted in grand style — was 
always in at the death ; sung songs after supper — loved claret ; never scrupled 
at an oath ; called Sir James “ her little man,” — always saw the horses fed ; 
obliged her girls to stand fire — her boys to go barefoot, to make them hardy ; 
and obtained for herself, amongst the country people, the universal sobriquet of 
“ Man Jack.” Perhaps all these eccentricities might have been forgiven, had she 
possessed the kindly feelings of her sex, for she was young and handsome; but 
she was neither an affectionate mother nor a sincere friend ; she loved to dash 
and to astonish, and left a family of beautiful children to the management of a 
French lady’s maid and the head groom. 

The postman’s arrival was a matter of great importance to the household, as 
Sir James always expected letters, and the family had many wants to be supplied. 
Ma’m’selle Madeline had descended to the servants’ hall to await John’s coming, 
and two or three of the younger children accompanied her: on a table, in the 
centre of the apartment, Miss Julia, a lovely girl of five years old, was dancing 
a jig, to the great amusement of two or three men servants, who sung St 
Patrick’s Day to “plaze the jewil;” Carlos and Henry, two younger urchin 
were riding a magnificent Newfoundland dog ; the groom and the footman were 
playing cards at a small side-table near the fire ; and near it was a jug of 
whiskey punch, to which the butler, housekeeper, and coachman frequently 
resorted. Ma’m’selle Madeline looked contemptuously on them all, until roused 
from her reverie by the butler’s inquiring “if Miss Maddy wouldn’t taste a drop 
of the genuine — betther, ten to one, nor all the wine that iver sailed out of 
France?’ “Non, Mercie, bien, tank you, Monsieur — ver oblige, mais — but I 
ha’ de horreur great to your ponch. Faugh? — excuse moi — ’tis von great bad 
shmell. — Faugh !” — and the lady’s maid refreshed her nose with “ Eau de Luce,’ 
much to the amusement of the servants. “ Oh, John 1— welcome,John !” “ Oh 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


i63 


Monsieur John, you not be come at last.” “John, the rings for the pigs.” 
John here, John there, John everywhere, as usual; at length, the papers and 
letters were piled on the table, and Ma’m’selle Madeline had received, and disap- 
peared with, her band-boxes. “ Larry,” said the butler to the footman, “ take 
up the papers— why don’t ye ?” “ Let them wait till I ’ve looked at them myself,” 
replied Larry; “ I want to see what news from the Curragh, as my lady has a 
heavy bet on Captain Lofty’s sorrel coult.” “ Any news of the law business ?” 
inquired the steward. “ How do I know, or what do I care ?” replied Larry : 
“ what does it signify whether law actions are gained or not ? — don’t we all know 
what comes over the divil’s back must go under — ” “ Dacency !” screamed 

the cook. “ All I know,” observed the steward, “ is — ” 

“ I ’ll tell ye what, boys,” said John Williams, “ ye’d betther mind yer business, 
and take the letthers up, out of hand ; for Sir James and my lady both saw me 
coming down the avenue.” 

“ Och, murder, John! — why didn’t ye tell me so before? — by the powers, 
‘ Man Jack’ ’ll bate my brains out !” and the footman hurried off amid the laughter 
of his fellow-servants. 

“Any news, Sir James?” inquired the lady, as she tried on a new velvet 
hunting-cap. 

“ Yes, my dear, I ’ve just received the bills for my last suit in the King’s 
Bench.” 

“ You lost the cause, I think.” 

“ Yes, owing to the hurry that Counsellor Playdil was in; — never can take 
his time about anything.” 

“ What ’s the damage ?” 

Poor Sir James groaned. “It will stand me in, one way or other, 
eighteen hundred and thirty-seven pounds, fourteen shillings, ana threepence 
farthing.” 

“ The devil it will !” exclaimed the lady, laying down the hunting-cap : “ I 
wonder, Sir James, you don’t at once take my advice ; have done with the law, 
and the torment of it. I ’ll bet ten to one you ’d be as happy again. Oh, if you 
had my spirit !” 

Sir James thought, perhaps, that she had enough for both : a pause ensued, and 
at length the M.P. began — “ My dear Lady Banks, do you know that Major 
McLaughlin’s filly has won the cup ?” 

“ Then I ’m in for a cool hundred, that ’s certain, or else there ’s some foul play. 
Curse me, though,” continued the lady, “ but I ’ll find it out ! — a colt like Lofty’s! 
— such a chest — such action — such limbs ! Why, McLaughlin’s was no more 
to be compared to it — but it ’s all your fault, Sir James — I never have my own 
way ; I ought to have been on the race-ground ; but here you would stick and 
vegetate like a cabbage ; except, indeed, in Term time ; you don’t care what ’s 
spent on law-suits.” 

“ ’Sdeath, Madam, were it not for the law we should be ruined, your extrava- 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


164 

gance is such — you never ask the price of anything ; — hadn’t I to go to law with 
your habit-maker for his overcharges ?” 

“Oh, yes! — and to pay three-and-thirty pounds more than the original 
bill.” 

“ Well, but still I had the law , and I showed the fellow I could not be imposed 
upon. Oh, Lady Banks, Lady Banks ! I wish you were less extravagant ; we 
must retrench. Do you know, were I not a Member of Parliament I should be 
in a jail ; think of that, Lady Banks ! — in a jail !” 

“Well, and have you not to thank me for your election? — who in their senses 
would have sent you , little man, to be a representative, if it hadn’t been for my 
canvassing ? The house would be half memberless, if only those sat there w 7 ho 
paid their debts !” — and she laughed loudly. “ Your law tells you that the M.P. 
is a cloak against bailiffs ! Vive le plaisir ! Why you don’t expect me to turn 
mourner, and spend my allowance only — like a school-girl; a woman of my 
spirit! Pardonnez moi /” She was leaving her husband surrounded by letters, 
all demanding money, when some idea or sensation occurred, that stopped her on 
the threshold. “ Sir James, Madeline tells me that Caroletta is ill ; perhaps the 
child wants change of air ; she growls fast — is getting quite womanly ; you had 
better send her to your sister at Portarlington for a time ; I have not a moment 
to attend to it, but as she is your pet I thought I would mention it.” The lady 
went to look after horses, and the gentlemen (who certainly loved his family), 
to inquire after his eldest child, whom he well knew not to be her mother’s 
favourite, because she was growing so tall and handsome that the vainglorious 
woman dreaded a rival. 

By the time our useful postman had completed his rounds, for he had much 
to do after he had left the Honourable Member’s house, the moon was high in 
the heavens, and John and his steed had ensured sound slumbers by active 
exertion. There were many, however, who woke, and some who wept, while 
the stars sparkled in the blue sky, and the unruffled ocean murmured along the 
shore. How different is night in the country from night in town ! Oh, for my 
native hills by moonlight ! — the very breeze tells of repose, and the lone and 
beautiful clouds, passing so silently along the heavens, that they — 

“ seem to be 

Fair islands in a dark blue sea, 

Which human eyes at eve behold ; 

But only then, unseen by day. 

Their shores and mountains all of gold.”’ 

At the Parsonage the, three sisters were chattering, as only girls can chatter, 
arranging further plans to benefit the poor and needy; and even w 7 hile their 
hearts were uplifted to the Giver of all good, they sank into the sweet slumbers 
of innocence. 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


lo5 


A trembling light, that issued from Mrs. Clavery’s window, showed she was 
still awake. Seated by the bed-side, where her three little ones, their arms 
twined round each other, slept the refreshing sleep of childhood, she read, for 
the last time that night, the lines which her husband’s hand had traced ; and, 
feeling how sw 7 eet it was to have near her anything that came from a beloved 
object, placed the letter under her pillow, and then, while earnest, silent tear 
coursed each other down her cheeks, prayed that an all-directing Providence 
would guide her husband in safety over the wide waste of waters. 

Lady Banks had just finished her last song, after supper, which was loudly 
applauded by the very mixed company that sat around the board, while her hus- 
band looked gloomy enough at the foot of the table, meditating on his long debts 
and neglected daughter. 

Our old friend, “ Grey Lambert,” and his faithful Bang, were soundly sleeping 
in the castle, while the breeze that moaned along the decaying walls was to them 
as a sweet and soothing lullaby. 

Anty McQueen — poor Anty ! — she slumbered not. Her father’s cottage was 
on the hill side, and a very neat cabin it was ; well filled, too, with children oi 
all ages and sizes, from Anty, the eldest, who, in her own opinion, was quite ofi 
enough to be married, down to a fat rosy “ lump of a boy,” who, although hardl r 
able to crawl, fought manfully with the pig for every potato it took into itf> 
mouth. The household, with the exception of Anty, were all fast asleep, anc, 
from the nature of her dress (according to the fashionable acceptance of th; 
word, she might have been called full dressed), it would seem she had been i i 
bed ; however, there she sat over the dying embers of the fire — an end of candli 
stuck in a scooped potatoe, that served as a candlestick — and an open letter in 
her hand, which she turned one way, and then another, without being able t > 
understand a single word of its contents. 

Poor Anty! — it was only when she had received from the postman th 
long-expected epistle, that it occurred to her that she was utterly unable to peruse! 
it. Indeed, she could hardly decipher print. But as to writing — she never had 
a pen in her hand in her life. Had she been inclined to make confidants of her 
father and mother, she would have been precisely in the same dilemma, for 
they w r ere equally ignorant; and bitterly did she regret the obstinacy of her 
disposition, which prevented her hearkening to Master Ben, when he counselled 
her to become a scholar. Grey Lambert, she knew, would at once have read 
every word of it, “ for he had great laming but unfortunately, as he} 
sweetheart was no other than his grandson, she did not exactly wish him to 
have so much subject-matter to jest her about. She had taken the letter to 
Mary-the-Mant, who, next to Peggy the Fisher, perhaps knew more about 
the love affairs of the neighbourhood than anybody else; but Mary-the- 
Mant was not at home — gone to Waterford — would not be back for three days! 
Master Ben then occurred to her. But, no ! — she could not bear him to read 
it for her ; not that he would laugh ; but he would feel no interest, and perhaps 
find fault, w r ith the skill of a practised critic, and condemn the spelling and diction 


166 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


of her beloved letter without mercy. What could she do ? Letty Connor — she 
was well educated ; but then she had been a sort of rival of hers, and she did 
nc^t wish her to know anything at all about the matter. John Williams? No ; 
he would make fun of her in his own quiet, sly way. What should she do ? — 
Tpere she sat over the fire, twisting and turning the manuscript, that looked, to 
tell the truth, like a collection of strange hieroglyphics, more than anything else 
arjd, after much consideration, Anty resolved on two things : one, even to tak 
the letter to Grey Lambert (for waiting three entire days for Mary-the-Mant 
w|is out of the question), and get him to read it. The other was to offer herself 
a^ain as a pupil to Master Ben, and get herself taught writing “ out of hand” — 
il] in a minute — and surprise her lover (who was a wonderful scholar entirely) 
v th her acquirements. 

The next morning Anty arrived at Coolhull before Lambert had finished his 
payers ; for, on peeping through a large slit in the door, she saw the old man 
op his knees before a crucifix, at the farther end of the great hall — Bang sitting 
by his side, while the bright red light of morning streamed through one of the 
broken windows, and rested on their heads. Her visit was immediately noticed 
by the faithful dog, whose scent, or ear, soon discovered that she was outside. 
He walked steadily to the time-worn door, and laying his long nose on the ground, 
tiffed loudly three or four times, and moved his tail slowly, in token of recog- 
nition, as she entered. The young girl busied herself in lighting the fire, and 
ssttling the few rude articles of furniture, according to her own taste, until Grey 
Lambert’s orisons were finished. When he arose from his knees, she knelt and 
esked his blessing. 

“Well, Anty, what’s come to ye, my child, to be two good miles from your 
own home, and it not six o’clock yet? ye weren’t heavy for sleep this morning, 

] ’m sartin ; is there anything the matter at home, mavourneen, for something 
strange must have brought ye? Come, don’t look so shy; what is it ails the 
colleen? — have ye lost yer tongue? — fait, agra ! it’s bad indeed wid ye, if 
hat ’s gone.” Anty shook her head. “ Well, I ’ll sit down here, and wait till ye 
choose to spake, and not spind any more o’ my breath on ye ; for, to tell God’s 
truth, I’ve not much to spare; only I can’t think what’s over the girl.” — Lam- 
bert sat down : and after a considerable pause, during which Anty twisted and 
untwisted the corner of her apron with admirable perseverence, she drew the 
letter from its hiding-place, and, turning away her blushing face as she spoke, 
said, with considerable hesitation— 

“ Ye funned me about a letther last night, sure I couldn’t help it if the boy 
chose to write. It ’s no faut o’ mine. I didn’t put any comether in life upon 
him ; and more betokens, I wouldn’t have troubled ye to rade it for me if I 
could rade it myself; and sure, Grey Lambert, I didn’t desave ye by no manner 
of manes ; for I knew ye mistrusted we were almost keeping company afore 
Pat took the turn for going to sea.” 

“Well, Anty, ye mane to be Grey Lambert’s grand-daughter; whisht now 1 
— I ’ll rade the letther.” 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


167 


“ My Dear Anty, 

* I do hope that these few lines will meet acceptance and true love from 
you, for ye haven’t forgot the fippinny-bit ; the half of it, and the long curl, are 
next my bateing heart this minit, and sure it ’s in the core of it they should be, 
‘f I bad any way to get them there ; but it ’s all the same. I ’m unasy in my 
mind about two things — my poor ould ancient gran’fader, and your little inno- 
cent flirtish ways. Ah, Anty ! sure there ’s all the boys on land that you used 
to taze the life o’ me about. And ye think it no harm to laugh wid ’em now ; 
but it wouldn’t be the same if we were married. — Ye’d behave yourself, thin, 
Anty And that and my ould ancient gran’fader has made up my mind. — 
And the thoughts of it has prevented my spending. — And I ’m coming home, 
plaze God, only don’t tell the ould man, nor Bang, the baste, becase I mane every 
mother’s sowl o’ ye much joy. — And I’ve bought such a beautiful gown-piece 
for the wedding. Only, to my thinking, Anty, nothing can make ye handsomer 
than ye are. And many charmers I have seen, but none like my Bannow girl. 
And Jim the boatswain has made a song upon ye, according to my telling, and 
every varse ends wid — 

* Anty, the darlint of the land 
Is still her Paddy's pride.’ 

Oh, it ’s a dale a finer song than 4 Colleen das Crutheen Amo,’ as you ’ll say whin 
ye hear it, which ’ll be very soon afther you, and my ould ancient gran’fader, 
gets the letthers. And there ’s another boy travelling home to Bannow, by the 
name of Thomas Clavery, a late soldier, but discharged — an honest, dacent 
craythur as ever drew breath, and doating alive upon the wife and the gravvls. 
Be faithful to him that ’s faithful to you, 4 true as the needle to the poll.’ — God’s 
blessing be about ye, prays, my dear Anty, 

44 Your most affectionate lover, 

“ (Husband soon) till death, 

44 Patrick Lambert.” 

Grey Lambert folded up the epistle, and returned it to its rightful owner ; the 
old man did not jest upon its contents, but, rising from his seat, laid his hand on 
Anty’s head, and, in a deep but solemn voice, said — 

44 So, colleen, the promise has passed betwixt ye, that in God’s eye is as 
binding on ye as if the blessed Pope had joined yer hands in his holy temple at 
Rome. I knew ye had a kindness for each other, from many little things, 
more especially from the way Pat always mintioned ye in his letthers ; but I 
didn’t think ye were contracted, or else, Anty, who I love (and good right I 
have to love ye, as my own child), I would have talked more seriously to ye about 
the little flirting ways yer true love mintions. Anty, look up in the ould man’s 
face, and tell him, did ye ever think — think solidly — what was required of woman 


168 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


in marriage ?” There was that in Grey Lambert’s manner which conquered 
levity, and the young girl looked up with the expression of countenance 
which replied “ No.” “ Few craturs at yer age do,” he continued : “ and 
what I say to you, ye young wild flower, sweet and spotless as ye are, I will 
say to him, and more too, for ye are far faithfuller in yer naturs than us. Ah, 
Anty! it’s asy enough to be true to the young heart’s first love, whin all is full 
of hope ; but, in my early days, I have seen affection that seemed as strong as 
life, and then, a breath, or a word, or a look, may-be, has begun unkindness, 
and that has increased, until, at last, bitther scorn, ay, and black hatred, grew, 
where there had been nothing but love and smiles. And women have much to 
bear, Anty; for it’s little men heed an unkind word, unjustly spoken, may-be, 
and yet to be borne, almost as if it was dear or darlint — which is the hardest 
word I hope ever to hear Patrick make use of to you. But, my girl, when ye 
knew of the promise, it wasn’t quite right of ye to skit, and laugh, and dance, as 
if ye were free,” 

“ I ’m sure, Grey Lambert,” interrupted Anty, half crying, “ ye ’ve no rason to 
turn on me, after that fashion, for I meant no harm, and nothing in life would 
ever make me jilty.” 

“ Asy, agra, till I tell ye a little story to divart ye a bit, and it ’s all thrue, and 
I know ye ’ll find out my maning, for ye ’re ’cute enough.” And Anty listened 
very attentively, pulling first one and then the other of “ Bang, the haste’s” ears, 
which he bore patiently, not even increasing her perplexity by moving his head 
from off her lap. 

“ In the ancient times, when flowers, and trees, and fairies were on spake- 
. ing terms, and all friendly together ; one fine summer’s day the sun shone out 
on a beautiful garden, where there war all sorts of plants that ye could mintion ; 
and a lovely but giddy fairy went sporting about from one to the other (although 
no one could see her, because of the sunlight), as gay as the morning lark; then 
says the fairy to the rose — ‘ Rose, if the sun was clouded, and the storm came 
on, would ye shelter and love me still? ‘Do you doubt me?’ says the rose, 
and reddened up with anger. — ‘ Lily,’ says the fairy to another love, ‘ if the sun 
was clouded, and a storm came on, would ye shelter and love me still V ‘ Oh ! 
do you think I could change V says the lily, and she grew still paler with sor- 
row. — ‘ Tulip,’ said the fairy, ‘ if the sun was clouded, and a storm came on, 
would ye shelter and love me still ?’ ‘ Upon my word !’ said the tulip, making 

a very gentleman-like bow, ‘ ye ’re the very first lady that ever doubted my con- 
stancy;’ so the fairy sported on, joyful to think of her kind and blooming 
friends. She revelled away for a time, and then she thought on the pale blue 
violet that was almost kivered with its broad green leaves ; and, although it was 
an ould comrade, she might have forgotten it, had it not been for the sweet 
scent that came up from the modest flower. ‘ Oh, violet !’ said the fairy, ‘ if the 
sun was clouded, and a storm came on, would ye shelter and love me still V 
And the violet made answer — ‘ Ye have known me long, sweet fairy; and in the 
first spring-time, when there were few other flowers, ye used to shelter from 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


169 

the could blast under my leaves ; now ye ’ve almost forgotten me — but let it 
pass try my truth — if ever you should meet misfortune — I say nothing.’ 
Well, the fairy slotted at that, and clapped her silvery wings, and whisked, 
singing, off on a sunbame ; but she was hardly gone, when a black cloud grew 
up out of the north, all in a minit, and the light was shrouded, and the rain fell 
in slashings, like hail, and away flies the fairy to her friend the rose.— 4 Now, 
Rose,’ says she, 4 the rain is come, so shelter and love me still.’ 4 1 can hardly 
shelter my own buds,’ says the rose, 4 but the lily has a deep cup.’ Well, the 
poor little fairy’s wings were almost wet, but she got to the lily ; 4 Lily,’ says 

she, 4 the storm is come, so shelter and love me still.’ 4 1 am sorry,’ says the 
lily, 4 but if I were to open my cup, the rain would bate in like fun, and my 
seed would be kil’t entirely — the tulip has long leaves.’ Well, the fairy was 
down-hearted enough, but she went to the tulip, who she always thought a 
sweet-spoken gentleman. He certainly did not look as bright as he had done 
in the sun, but she waved her little wand, and 4 Tulip,’ said she, 4 the rain and 
the storm are come, and I am very weary, but you will shelter and love me still.’ 
‘Begone!’ said the tulip; 4 be off!’ says he; 4 a pretty pickle I’d be in if I let 
every wandering scamper come about me.’ — Well, by this time, she was very 
tired, and her wings hung dripping at her back — wet indeed — but there was no 
help for it, and, laneing on her pretty silver wand, she limped off to the violet ; 
and the darlint little flower, with its blue eye, that ’s clear as a kitten’s, saw 
her coming, and never a word she spoke, but opened her broad green leaves, 
and took the wild wandering craythur to her bosom, and dried her wings and 
breathed the sweetest perfumes over her, and sheltered her until the storm was 
clane gone. Then the humble violet spoke, and said — ‘Fairy Queen, it is bad 
to flirt with many, for the love of one true heart is enough for earthly woman, 
or fairy spirit ; the ould and humble love is better than the gay compliments of 
a world of flowers, for it will last when the others pass.’ And the fairy knew 
that it was true for the blue violet ; and she contented herself ever after, and 
built her downy bower under the wide-spreading violet leaves, that sheltered her 
from the rude winter’s wind and the hot summer’s sun ; and to this very day 
the fairies love the violet beds.” 

Anty smiled, and suffered Bang’s ears to escape, when the story was 
finished. Grey Lambert smiled also, and, as she was departing, inquired if 
her parents knew of the contract ? She frankly replied in the negative ; and 
the old man accompanied the little gipsy to her father’s cabin, where the news 
was joyfully received. Everybody liked Patrick ; and, moreover, everybody 
suspected that in some sly corner the old man had wherewithal to make a 
plentiful wedding. 

Nothing happened to prevent matters coming to a happy termination. 
Thomas Clavery and Patrick Lambert returned on the same day. The 
gown-piece was declared to be an 44 uncommon beauty,” even by Mrs. 
Cassidy; and a time was fixed for the wedding: — but where do you suppose 
22 


170 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


it was celebrated ? In no other place, I assure you, than in Grey Lambert’s 
old castle. 

“ It ’s a fancy, I know,” said he, “ and a strange one, but I can’t help it ; the 
bride and bridegroom can trot off to their nate little cabin, that ’s all ready for 
them, and that I defy any one to say wants a single thing ; and it will make me 
happy to know that once more laughter and music will visit the ancient castle 
of Coolhull.” 

Such a wedding was never seen in the country from that day to this ; it 
was a most wonderful wedding ! More than fifty long torches, of bog-wood, 
were stuck up and down in the walls, and the ivy and wild plants formed a 
singular but not unpleasing contrast to the grey stones and flaring lights. — 
One end of the dilapidated hall was reserved for dancing ; and there, on a 
throne of turf, sat the immortal Kelly ; a deep jug of whiskey punch close to 
his footstool, and he “ blowing away for the dear life” on his pipes. At the 
other end was a long table, formed of deal spars — covered with such cloths, 
plates, dishes, glasses, noggins, jugs, and sundries, as the neighbouring farm- 
houses could lend — placed on stones and turf, and sufficiently elevated. What 
a supper ! — rounds of beef — turkeys — geese — such profusion ! — the “ wedding 
of Ballyporeen” was nothing to it! And when the cake was fairly cut, Father 
Mike’s perquisites were many, for Grey Lambert, whose reported wealth was 
no jest, laid down a golden guinea on the plate. He had bidden many of the 
neighbouring gentry to the marriage, and, as the old man was much respected, 
and the arrangements very singular, there were few apologies. The great 
hall was, at an early hour, nearly filled with motley company ; ladies and 
gentlemen, farmers and farmers’ wives, “ boys and girls” of all ranks, in their 
Sunday gear, and with happy joyous faces ; some whispering so closely that 
Father Mike was led to believe a few more weddings would take place before 
Lent; then the Babelish noises! — Kelly’s pipes — merry laughter — loud toasts 
— the no-light-footed jig — and the continued buz-buz of the busy tongues. 
The clergyman and the parish priest sat at the same table ; and it must be 
confessed that neither Ude’s nor Kitchener’s sauces were wanting to make the 
feast palatable. 

Grey Lambert danced most merrily with the young ladies from the Parsonage, 
and “ bate them off the flure,” at the Irish jig. The bride looked provokingly 
pretty and mischievous; and the boatswain, who came from Waterford to the 
ceremony, sung not only — 

‘ Anty, the darlint of the land, 

Is still her Paddy's pride.’ 

but composed extemporaneous verses on the occasion, which were received 
with much applause. 

Was that all? No; in the far corner sat Thomas and Mary Clavery 1 

John Williams, whose dislike to conversation disappeared in a very odd way, 


THE BANNOW POSTMAN. 


171 


probably owning to his continued potations, annoyed Anty continually by 
calling her “ Mrs. Lambert and the old man kept up the joke, somewhat 
unmercifully, by now and then reminding her of the past — “ Sure I ’ll not come 
to see ye in yer unchristian-like place, if ye talk after that fashion to a young 
cratur like me !” 

As his company departed, he conducted them with the* air of a prince to 
the great gate ; and Father Mike, after he had earnestly prayed that his full 
blessing might rest on them all, declared he had never been at so happy a 
wedding. 

I am not prepared to state whether or not Anty learned writing, for she was 
able to prevail upon Patrick to “ give up the sea,” and content himself with the 
occasional management of a fishing-boat ; consequently, she was not likely, in 
the w T hole course of her life, to receive another letter. She remembered the 
fairy tale, and to the credit of the sex be it spoken, left off “ her flirting ways.” 
Grey Lambert is still in possession of the old castle and extraordinary health ; 
and John Williams may carry this tale to “ mine old home,” in his capacity as 
The Bannow Postman. 




LUKE 0* BRIAN. 



WISH, with all my heart, I could adequately describe 
Luke ; I have often requested him to sit for his picture, 
and, if he had done so, I think I should have had it 
engraved for the benefit of the English public. Luke, 
however, has what he calls “ a mortal objection to 
his face being in print.” Therefore, good reader, you 
can never have an accurate idea of the subject of my 
story. He was, when I first knew him, about two- 
and-twenty ; in height, six feet four inches ; slight, but 
muscular ; and the too visible size of his bones renders 
him not unworthy of his gigantic nomenclature. 
His countenance is nondescript — appertaining to no 
particular nation, yet possessing, it may be said, the 
deformities of all : — an Austrian mouth, French com- 
plexion, Highland hair (of the deepest tint), small 

(172) 





LUKE O’BRIAN. 


173 


pepper-and-salt colou^d eyes, that constantly regard each other with sympathetic 
affection, and a nose elevated and depressed in open defiance of the line of beauty, 
are the most striking objects in his strange physiognomy ; — in common justice, 
I must add, that his face is remarkably long, pale, and much disfigured by a cut 
he received from a “ hurley” in his boyhood, which carried away his left eye- 
brow, and a small portion of his cheek ; this mark, Luke, who is an acknowledged 
wag, terms “ his beauty-spot.” 

It was a drizzling, damp evening, in the month of November, when the afore- 
mentioned Luke O’Brian, grasping his shillalah in his enormous hand, passed 
tnrough the beautifully situated town of Enniscorthy ; — glancing as he could do, 
without inconvenience, one eye towards Vinegar-hill, and the other towards the 
noble ruins of “ the Castle,” he proceeded on his way, intending to reach Wex- 
ford that night. Although Luke' was a tall, stout, brave boy, he would rather 
have been anywhere than just where he was: with a dreary road before him, 
and no one to speak to, the huge rocks looked frowning enough, to a lonely 
traveller, in the deepening twilight, on one side of the way ; and, on the other, 
rolled the dark blue waters of the Slaney. Luke had been serving writs in a 
distant part of the country; he was not a native of the county of Wexford, 
though selected for the performance of this, by no means safe, task, by an attor- 
ney, who shall be nameless. He had wandered away from the right road, when 
ne fancied he heard steps behind him ; his merry whistle sank into a kind of hiss, 
and his long legs trembled somewhat, as he strode forward ; he soon ascertained 
that his pursuers were two in number, and, from their trot-like walk, justly con- 
cluded that they were short, stout men ; nevertheless, they soon overtook Luke ; 
long-shanked though he was, he had no chance of outstriding them. 

“ May-be you ’ve walked far this bleak night V 9 they inquired. 

“ May-be I have,” replied Luke. 

“ May-be ye ’re going far on V 9 

“ May-be so.” 

“ How dim the ould stones look in the grey light !” observed one of the per- 
severing travellers. 

“ So they do.” 

“ They say they ’re mighty unlucky,” continued one of the men. 

Our hero summoned courage, and replied, firmly, “ Nothing ’s unlucky to a 
stout heart.” I 

“ Say you so, my boy ?” exclaimed the younger one ; “ then here goes !” and 
the click of a pistol, that was instantly presented at Luke’s breast, sounded very 
disagreeably through the dark night. His arms were instantly pinioned, with 
almost supernatural strength, by the fellow-robber, and he was drawn back into 
a sort of fosse, or deep dike, that skirted the path. He shouted loudly fot 
assistance, but was told, very coolly, to “ hould his whisht.” “ Do ye think that 
people have nothin’ to do but to walk the road, to look for young chaps in dis- 
tress ? Hould yer whisht, I say ! By the powers ! if ye don’t, I ’ll ” 


174 


LUKE O’BRIAN. 


“ Stop,” said the elder ; “ as ye value yer mother’s curse or blessing ! — don’t 
ye remember what she said not two hours agone ?” 

“ Can’t he give up what he has got ?” retorted the younger ; “ does he think 
I ’m a fool, to feel the cash in his pocket, and lave it there ? I ’ll tell ye what,” 
he continued ; “ give it up, and ye shall meet wid genteel tratement ; it ’s good 
to have to do wid gintlemen, in our trade. But look ye, my lad ; I ’ve a mother 
dying of starvation ; food hasn’t crossed her lips for more than two days ; and 
we ’re all hunted like wild animals, from house and home. So, if ye ’ve a mother 
of yer own, give us the means of saving her life.” 

“ In troth,” replied Luke, “ I never had either father or mother, that I know 
of. But there, — I ’m only a poor, lone boy. Sure ye wouldn’t take all I have 
in the world to depind on V ’ 

“ Not all ye have,” responded the elder of the men, with a bitter groan ; “ we 
couldn’t take all ye have, for ye have a good name may-be, and that is what we 
can never have again.” They rifled the contents of his leather bag ; which the 
younger was about to pocket, when the elder interposed. 

“ It ’s only* five one-pounders, and a few bits of silver. And is this all ye 
have, for the many times you’ve been a’ most kilt, sarving the law, to be sure? 
Well, the half of it will do our turn: keep the rest. We’d be long sorry to 
take all he had from any fatherless boy.” The young man grumblingly re- 
turned half the money; and Luke, with that natural cheerfulness of feeling, 
the almost peculiar characteristic of the Irish, felt as if he had gained, not as 
if he had lost anything. Still he was sadly perplexed ; — he had wandered 
considerably from the main road, and, in endeavouring to regain it, grappled 
amid what appeared an interminable wilderness of over-grown fern, sharp, 
stinging furze, and low broom-wood — the most intricate thing in the world to 
escape from, as the frequent cuttings it receives from the broom-gatherers make 
it very spreading in its under branches; then the turf-holes, and the various 
inequalities of the ground — now up, now down ; not a star twinkling in the 
firmament — not a light to tell of human habitation in any direction ; the rain 
pouring unceasingly, and the wind blowing, as Luke afterwards declared, “ in 
whatever direction he turned, always in his face.” At length he had almost 
resolved to sit down quietly upon a rock, and wait the morning dawn, when, in 
what appeared a high mound of clay, at a short distance, he perceived a little 
ray of light ; he well knew that, in Ireland, wherever there is a roof, there is a 
resting-place for the poorest traveller ; and, guided by the flickering spark, he 
soon arrived at what could hardly be called a human dwelling. It was, 
literally speaking, a large excavation in the earth ; two boards, nailed together, 
closed the aperture through which the wretched inhabitants entered, and a 
hole in the clayey roof served the double purpose of chimney and window. 
For a moment he rested outside the threshold; and, between the intermediate 
blasts, the low murmurings of a female voice, in earnest prayer, could be dis- 
tinctly heard. He pushed asfide the unprotecting door ; and, stretched on the 
cold, wet floor, with scarcely sufficient straw # to keep her wasted limbs from the 


LUKE o’brian. 175 

earth, covered by the remains of a tattered cloak, he saw the apparently dying 
form of an elderly woman. The miserable rush-candle, that had guided him to 
the hovel, was stuck in a scooped potato; her head was supported by a 
bundle of rags; a broken tea-cup, and an equally mutilated plate, both 
without either food or liquid, were within reach of the skeleton hands that were 
fervently clasped together. Through the opening in the roof, the rain fell in 
torrents, forming sundry pools around the fireless hearth ; and no article of furni- 
ture of any kind was visible in the miserable dwelling-place — the last earthly 
home of the departing spirit. As Luke entered, she endeavoured to turn her 
head towards him, but appeared unable, and barely articulated, “ Is that you, 
Tom, honey ?” 

Luke returned the usual friendly salutation of “ God save all here !” and ad- 
vanced towards her. The look of her fast-glazing eye fixed steadily upon the 
young man, and he has often said, “ the freezing of that look will never leave his 
heart.” 1 have seen him shudder at the remembrance. Slowly she pushed 
back the grey, yet clustering, hair, from her clammy brow, and gazed upon 
him long and fixedly. “ Don’t be frightened, agra !” said he, at last ; “ I ’ve 
lost my way, and, may-be, ye ’d jist let me wait here awhile, till the storm goes 
by ; and, may-be, also, ye ’d fancy a bit of what I ’ve got in my pocket (he 
pulled out the fragments of some wheaten bread) ; or a drop of this would bring 
the life to yer heart, astore.” She grasped the food he offered, with all the 
frightful eagerness of famine ; but, when she endeavoured to swallow, it almost 
caused suffocation. Luke took a little of the rain-water in a broken cup, and ; 
mixing with it a small portion of whiskey, knelt, and, gently supporting her head, 
poured it down her throat. She appeared somewhat revived ; and, placing her 
long, bony fingers on his arm, whispered : — 

“ God reward ye ! — God reward ye ! — may God keep ye from bitter sin ! — 
there ’s nothin’ to offer ye, nor no fire to dry ye ! — but take the wet tacks off, 
they ’ll give ye yer death o’ could.” 

Luke obeyed her bidding, and, in a few moments, the dying woman turned 
towards him another long and piercing look. “ Can ye spare me a taste more 
of that cordial, honey ?” she inquired. Luke again knelt, in the same position 
as before, and she drank with avidity of what he offered. As he was about 
withdrawing his arm, her eye fixed upon a mark that had been engraved upon 
his wrist, by a species- of tattooing, which the Irish, particularly along the sea- 
coast, frequently use. It was of a deep blue, and he had no recollection when 
or how it had been impressed. She grasped his hand with fearful violence, 
and her energies seemed at once awakened. She tried to articulate; but, 
although her eyes sparkled, and she sat upright on her bed of straw, yet she 
could not utter a single sound. “ Is it the maning of that mark, ye want to 
make out? Why, thin, it’s just myself that can’t tell ye, because, ye see, I 
don’t know : I ’m sorry for it, agra ! but it can’t be helped ; only I often think 
that, may-be, it will be the manes of my finding out who owns me, which, at 
present, I don’t know from Adam. Sorra a one ever laid claim to me, only 


176 


LUKE O’BRIAN. 


poor Peg O’Brian, of Cranaby Lane, Cork ; who found me, as a new-year’s gift, 
the first day of January, one thousand eight hundred and seven, outside ” 

A scream, loud and piercing, interrupted Luke ; and at the same instant, the 
withered arms of the poor woman strained him, with a strong grasp, to her 
bosom. “ I haven’t an hour to live, boy 1” she exclaimed at last ; “ and, oh ! for 
the sake of the mercy you expect hereafter, do not throw from ye the poor, 
sinful, dying mother, that bore ye ; — don’t, don’t — for, oh ! my child ! — I ’m still 
— though banned and starving — I ’m still your mother !” 

Luke was much affected : he had argued himself into the belief that he 
was a son of one of the nobles of the land ; and that, some day or other, he 
would, according to his own phrase, “ turn out a lord, or, at the laste, a gentle- 
man and it would have been difficult to analyze the nature of the contending 
feelings that agitated him. Pity, deep and affectionate pity, for her who had 
just declared herself his parent, was, however, the predominant one ; and he 
returned her embrace with warmth and sincerity. 

“ I must tell you all I can,” she continued, Tn a broken voice ; “ but first, let 
me ask ye, have ye been honest in yer dealings with rich and poor ? Have ye 
kept from the temptation of gould ? — Och ! but it ’s the yellow and the bitter 
curse ! — that leads — but tell me, tell me ! — are ye honest ?” 

“ God knows,” he replied, “ I never took to the value of a traneen from man 
or mortal ; and, what ’s more, many a gentleman’s son would be glad to take up 
with the karacter of poor Luke.” 

“ Heaven be thanked for these words !” ejaculated the unfortunate creature ; 
“ for, in the deep of misfortune, the best of comfort is come to me, — may the 
Lord be praised ! When I dared to strive (sinner that I am) to pray, even one 
word, it was, that you might be honest. All belonging to me are bad, — bad. 
My children — all, all but you, banned, cursed, — but brought up as they were ! 
— sure, the kittens of the wild cat must seek the young bird’s nest ! — even now, 
to bring me food, my husband, and my other born son, are — no, not murder ! — 
they swore that they wouldn’t take life.” 

The horrid truth flashed upon the young man’s mind, that he had encountered 
his father and brother ; and he explained that he had met them, and told also of 
their generous conduct towards him. 

“ Thank God ! — but that man is not your father,” she said : “ listen for one 
minute. I married a man I hated, for money ; but my wild, fierce passions 
could not bear it — I broke his heart ; — you were born after his death — I loved 
you — but no matter — I loved also a wild and wandering man. He was hand- 
some to look upon, and he promised to make an honest woman of me, if I got 
rid of you. God had a hand in ye for good, though you needn’t thank me for 
it. So I left ye in a strange place, first setting my mark on ye ; and after, 
whenever I could, I found out that ye were like an own child to poor Peg. 
But the love of gould followed us both ; and, at last, the man was transported. 
It is quare how my love for him held out ; but it did. I followed sin, that I 
might be sent where he was; and, sure enough, I found him in that land which 


LUKE O’BRIAN. 


177 


it’s a shame to mintion. Still we longed to get back to ould Ireland; and, 
though we returned too soon, yet we meant to do well ; but the informers g5t 
scent of him, and again we were forced to fly. I became a sorrowful mother 
to many children ; and some of them I followed to the gallows-tree : and, at last, 
my heart turned to iron, and all sins seemed one ; but, if a wretch like me can 
say so — I heard, and I read among some loose leaves (for I had my share of 
laming once,) that came from a house they wracked one night, that there was 
a hope even for us ! And I tould thirn of it, but they laughed at me ; and, even 
when my heart feels burst and burning, I think upoj 3 thim, and strive to pray.” 

With a trembling hand she drew, from under the straw, some torn leaves of 
the bible. 

“ I cannot see to lay them properly,” she said ; “ but this half I give to you, 
and these I wfill leave here ; they will find them when I am dead. And God 
can bless them — may-be, to salvation.” 

Luke took the pages, while the tears flowed abundantly down his cheeks. 

“ And now,” said she, “ go. I would not have them know ye for the world ; 
they would want ye to be like them. Go — go — I shall see them ; for they can 
only get food at night for me, like the wild bastes. One thing more : — in 
Wexford,” and she accurately described the street and house, “ you will find 

Father ; tell him all , and where I am. Though none of us are of this 

country, he knows me well — he will come; and then you may know where they lay 
my poor bones, and, may-be, ye’d say one prayer for the soul of yer sinful mother.” 

The unfortunate woman had only a little ray of light afforded her to point 
the true path to a happy eternity; but to Luke it was granted, at a future period, 
to know and profit by the words of the Gospel of peace. That night he hastened 
to find the priest, who was a kind and benevolent man, and hastened to his duty : 
his mother died before the next sunset. He has been long settled, where his early 
occupation is unknown; and has often rejoiced in the hope that the dead may 
be received, even at the eleventh hour ; and prayed that he may continue in the 
right way! 




BLACK DENNIS. 



ELL !” exclaimed Michael Leahy, as he entered his 
cottage — “ well ! the Lord be praised ! — I ’ve seen a 
powerful deal of happiness this day, one way or the 
other. Above, at the big house, the mistress was 
giving out the medicine, and food, with her own two 
blessed hands, to half the parish ; there she was, at 
the closet window, slaving herself for the poor — 
that ’s Christianity !” He proceeded to shake the 
snow from his “ big coat,” and hang it up. “ It ’s a 
powdering night of snow, as ever came out of the 
heavens ; but, any how, we have a roof to shelter us, 
thank God ! — to say nothin’ o’ the sod o’ turf, and 
the boiling pratees ; and the master gave me a good 
quarter o’ tobaccy ; so now, Norry, lay bv your 
spinning, and let ’s have our bit o’ supper.” 

“With all the joy in life, Mick — and thank God, 


i!78> 


BLACK DENNIS. 


179 

too, that my husband comes home, when his work is done, to his wife and 
childer.” 

Mick Leahy looked affectionately at his wife — and well he might. She was 
clean and industrious— cheerful and contented : the mud walls of her cabin were 
whitewashed ; a glass window, small, but unbroken, looked out on a little garden, 
stocked with potatoes and cabbages, and hedged with furze. No labourer in 
the country had thicker stockings than Mick Leahy — they were his wife’s knit- 
ting ; no whiter shirts were on the town-land than Mick Leahy’s— and they 
were all of his wdfe’s spinning. No finer children knelt to receive the priest’s 
blessing on a summer Sunday, than Mick Leahy’s ; and proud were father and 
mother of them. 

“God help all poor travellers! — it’s blake and bitther weather,” continued 
Mick, as he lit his pipe, and took his seat on the settle, under the wide chimney, 
after he had finished his supper; “I wish some unfortunate cratur had a share 
of the chi mbly-corner, for there ’ll be neither hedge nor ditch to be seen by 
morning, if it snows on in this way.” 

“ It does my heart good to see little Mary bless herself when she lays her head 
down for the night,” said Norah, coming out of their only bedroom — which was 
always in neat order. “ And then, Lanty has the Ave-Mary and all, so pat ; — 
och ! Mick, honey, ’t is sweet to look at childer — and very sweet to look at one’s 
own childer ; but it ’s bitter to think that, one day, may-be, they may come to 
sin and shame.” 

“ No child of mine, Norah,” said the father, proudly, “ shall ever come to sin 
or shame.” 

“ Whisht, Mick, whisht !” said the meek mother ; “ we are all born to sin, you 
know — but God keep away shame ! — all we can do is to pray for, and show them 
a good patthern.” 

“ Then, that ’s true, and spoken sinsible, like my own Norry,” replied the 
father ; “ and the blessing o’ God will always be about you and yours, at any 
rate. What ! — agin to the wheel ! Well, y ’re never idle — I ’ll say that for ye.” 

Bur, bur — went the wheel, and the turf sparkled ; still the storm increased, and 
shook the little cabin, that seemed almost beneath its vengeance. 

“Was there any signs of fire-light in the place on the far moor, as ye passed 
it?” inquired Norah. 

“ None, that I see,” replied the husband. 

“Do you know, Mick, I never could make them people out; there’s the three 
of ’em live upon nothin’ at all — that I can think of ; they never beg — they never 
w T ork. Lanty met the child, this morning, picking bits o’ sticks near the moor- 
hedge, and he tould him his daddy was dying, and his mammy not much better ; 

» so Lanty brought him home, and I gave him plenty to ate, and as many pratees 
as he could carry away, and a morsel o’ white bread; and, to be sure, he ate, 
the cratur, as if he was starved ; but was so shy and wild— like a young fox-cub 
— that I could get nothin’ out of him.” 

“ Of all the men I ever see, in my born days, that man has the black-heart 


180 


BLACK DENNIS. 


look. The wicked one — Heaven bless us ! — set his mark between his two eyes, 
or he never did it to anybody yet.” 

“ Hush, Mick ! — is that the wind shaking the windy, or a knock of the door ?” 

The knock was distinctly repeated, and Mick inquired who was there? A 
female voice requested admission, and, on his opening the door, a tall woman, 
enveloped in a long blue cloak, entered ; when in the cottage, she threw back 
the hood that had quite covered her face ; it might once have been handsome, 
but want and misery had obliterated its beauty, and given an almost maniac 
expression to eyes both dark and deep ; the hair was partly confined by a check- 
ered kerchief ; and the outline of the figure would have been worthy the pencil 
of Salvator. 

“Ye don’t know me, and so much the betther; but I am wife to him that’s 
dying on the far moor; and I want you, Mick Leahy, to go to Father Connor, 
and ask him, for the love of God, to come to the departing sinner, and — if he 
can — give him some comfort.” 

“ Sit down,” said Norry, kindly ; shrinking, nevertheless, from her visiter. 
“ ’T is an awful night, and a long step to his reverence’s ; but Mick will do a 
good turn for any poor sinner: yet I wonder ye didn’t call to himself, and ye 
passed close by his gate coming here.” 

“ Me call on a priest !” half screamed the woman ; “ me, the cast-away ! — 
the thing that ’s shunned as soon as seen ! — Me ! — but do not look so at me, Norry 
Leahy! — do not. Ye were kind enough, this morning, to my starving boy; ye 
sent food to my miserable cabin ! Do not — do not ! Now, when he is dying ! 
Bad as he is, Norry, he is still my husband.” 

“ Asy, asy,” said Mick ; “ I do not care who he is ! Sure, we ’re all sinners, 
and God is good : he may get betther.” 

“ No, no, I do not wfish him that ; he has nothing to live for : the ban is on him ; 
and, if he was known, even here, he would be torn in pieces.” 

Mick and Norah exchanged glances, and slowly did the former take his long 
coat off the peg; and wdstfully did poor Norah look at her husband, for the 
woman’s wfildness had quite overpowered her ; yet, to refuse going for a priest, 
was what no Irishman ever did, and she thought it was her husband’s duty ; her 
fears, for a moment, conquered her resolution, when he was in the act of open- 
ing the door ; and, laying her hand gently on the woman’s cloak, she said, with 
a quivering lip — 

“ And w T ont ye tell us yer name ; and Mick going to do yer bidding ?” 

“ Ye will have it, Norry Leahy,” replied she, almost fiercely — “ Anne Dennis ! 
— my husband was called Black Dennis, the informer !” 

Norah staggered back, and Mick withdrew his hand from the latch. 

“ Ye will not go, then?” said the unfortunate creature; “ and, because he ’s a 
sinner, ye think he should be left to die like a dog in a ditch ; and you, Norry, 
you shrink from me ; and what power have I to harm ye ?— look !” She threw 
back her cloak ; a worn jacket and petticoat hardly shrouded so perfectly skeleton 
a form, that poor Norah looked on her with pity and astonishment. “ Look ! — 


BLACK DENNIS. 


181 

and say, if I have power to harm ! — I have hardly strength enough to hold his 
dying head off the cold earth.” 

“ I ’ll go, in the name o’ mercy,” said Mick, “ though it ’s little he deserves a 
good turn from any one, even on his death-bed.” 

Norah was horrified at her husband’s visiting one who had brought sorrow to 
so many dwellings ; but he was gone, and she was left, in her cottage solitude, 
to brood over what she had just heard and seen. “ Black Dennis” had been a 
United Irishman, and one of the most violent order — the projector of more burn- 
ings, murders, and robberies, than any chief of them all ; and when, at last, he 
found that he could no longer carry on the system of rebellion and plunder, into 
which he had drawn so many unfortunate victims, he turned king’s evidence ; 
many were the men either transported or executed on his statements — all less 
guilty than himself. No wonder, then, that Black Dennis was regarded with 
peculiar sentiments of abhorrence, and that, wherever he went, he was a banned 
man I His wife had shared his plunder, and exulted in his deeds, when he was 
a bold rapparee ; but, when he. became a cold-blooded informer, she spurned 
both him and his wealth, and left him to his wanderings. He went abroad, but 
his ill-got gold wasted and wasted ; and he returned to his native country, “ to 
lave his bones,” as he said, “among his own people.” 

His wife had been no less miserable than himself ; and, when her wretched 
husband made his appearance at her poor door, she felt relieved at beholding 
the only being who could truly appreciate her varied sufferings : his money was 
gone — he was dying a lingering death; and her still woman’s heart yearned 
towards its early affection. They could not remain in the village where she and 
her boy resided ; because, there, Black Dennis would soon have been recognized ; 
so she sold the few articles of furniture and clothing she possessed, and went 
away with her husband, that he might die in peace on “ the far moor.” Her 
anxiety to procure for him the rites of the church in his last moments, overcame 
her repugnance to discovery ; and a sort of holy fear prevented her going to the 
priest herself: the kindness shown by the Leahys to her child, induced her to 
confide in them ; and silently, but thankfully, she accompanied Mick to Mr. 
Connor’s house. 

The good priest went with his guides to the hut where the informer lay. It 
was, in truth, meet dwelling for such a man : “ the far moor” showed an extensive 
waste of snow, with but one tree to break its white surface; and the hovel 
rested against its immense trunk, which, having escaped the axe and the 
tempest, sti ipped even of its bark by time, threw far and wide its knotted and 
distorted limbs, as if in mockery of the whirlwind and the storm. 

The sands of life were nearly run. Black Dennis lay extended on some straw, 
scarcely covered by portions of tattered clothing, and his head rested on the 
knees of his boy ; he moved it quickly as they entered, and pressed a little wooden 
cross to his lips : the priest poured a cordial down his throat, and, for a few 
moments, he revived. 

“ That man need not go,” said he, seeing Mick about to take his departure 


182 


BLACK DENNIS. 


in order that the sinful man might confess ; “ I have nothing to tell but what all 
the world knows ; nothing to say, except that my heart is — hell ! Oh ! will your 
reverence tell me,” — and he raised his head from the child’s lap — “ if there is 
hope for me, the murderer, the burner, the rebel, the informer ?”• — Madly his 
glaring eyes watched for a reply. 

“ There is hope for all,” replied Father Connor, “ through God’s mercy.” 

The head fell back, the eye fixed, the lip quiveringly uttered " Hope,” and 
Black Dennis was no more. 

The unfortunate widow shed no tears, but knelt and gazed on him who had 
known so much sin, and endured so much sorrow : the child clung around its 
mother’s neck, and wept bitterly. Leahy endeavoured to rouse her from her 
stupor, but in vain. “ I cannot leave her in this way ; and the poor boy — he ’s 
innocent any way ; and that ’s not ‘ Black Dennis’ now, but only a lump o’ dust ! 
Yer reverence, what am I to do?” 

The priest stooped down, and endeavoured to disengage the child from the 
parent : this aroused her. “ My boy ! — my boy !” and the tears flowed from eyes 
to which they had long been strangers. “ Ye’ll put him in holy ground, Father ?” 
said she, looking at the priest. “Ye’ll not deny even an informer Christian 
burial ? I know H would be a bad example to bury him by daylight ; but, by night, 
what would hinder ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Connor, “ to-morrow night, I will see that duty properly 
performed ; and now I can only commend you to the mercy of God.” 

The grey morning dawned on Leahy and his good Norah, tracing their path 
to the hut on the far moor. “ It would be a sin,” said the latter, “ to bear spite 
and hatred to a senseless corpse ; and, bad as the woman was, she left him when 
he turned informer.” During the day, the priest procured a rude coffin, and, 
with the assistance of one of his own people, by the light of the waning moon, 
that shed her cold rays over the snow-clad country, in a corner of the old church- 
yard — far from any other grave — the body of Black Dennis was deposited. 

No inducement could prevail on the unfortunate woman to forsake the grave : 
she sat on it, wrapped in her long blue cloak, and suffered her boy to be led away 
by the priest to his own dwelling — for the amiable man could not bear to leave 
a child of six years old exposed on so inclement a night. 

When the morning came, the woman was not seen ; the boy went crying from 
the churchyard to the hut, but could nowhere find his mother. He grew up in 
Mr. Connor’s house, a solitary, but not a friendless, being — a melancholy, gentle 
youth, whose intellects appeared to have suffered from the recollection of early 
misery ; he was, nevertheless, tractable and obedient, and devotedly attached to 
his benefactor. 

It was long unknown what became of the widow. Some said she was dead 
— others, that she was employed in unceasing pilgrimage and penance. Although 
the death of Black Dennis was almost forgotten, no one cared to rebuild the hut 
on the far moor; and even the village children, when seeking heath-bells and 
buttercups, avoided the shadow of the “ Informer’s Tree.” 


BLACK DENNIS. 


183 


The youth, who was always called “ Father Connor’s Ned,” often visited the 
cheerful Norah and her husband, and seemed particularly fond of every inhabi- 
tant of their happy cottage. Mick Leahy used to lament that the boy was an 
“ innocent but Norry would reply, “ So best, Mick, for ye see, by being weak, 
he escapes being wicked ; and it was natural to suppose he ’d be one or t’ other, 
seeing he came from a bad stock.” 

Mick, and his wife and family, had been laughing over the embers of the fire, 
one evening, telling tales, and singing old ballads ; poor Ned, who formed one of 
the party, was even more silent than usual, when he suddenly started up, and, 
pointing to the window, exclaimed, “ Did you see that V 9 

“ There, ’t is passed now,” he continued, wildly. “ Norry, if ever there was 
a banshee, that ’s one ; and it is not the first time, nor the second either, that I ’ve 
seen it, wid its large grey eyes fixed on me, so death-like ; but I don’t think I 
iver see it more than once in the same year.” 

“ A shadow certainly passed the windy, I ’ll take my bible oath,” said Mick. 
He went out, and, to his astonishment, no person was visible. “ God save us 
all !” said he, re-entering his cabin, “ it ’s very quare.” 

Soon after, the simple boy returned home; but the first news the Leahys 
heard, next morning, was, that, on the cold door-stone of the priest’s house, an 
aged corpse was found — the worn and wasted corpse of Anne Dennis ! 

The w T retched wanderer had, it was afterwards ascertained, been an occa- 
sional visiter to the neighbourhood ; anxious, doubtless, to look upon her child, 
yet careful to avoid discovery, and feeling, most probably, that her last hour was 
come, she had that night laid her down at the door of the house that had sheltered 
the only being she loved, and expired. They buried her quietly, near her hus- 
band. The long grass, and the broad-leaved dock, wave over them in the chill 
blast of the winter evening ; and, sometimes, poor harmless Ned is seen to stand 
and look, with tearful eyes, upon his parents’ grave. 




MARY M AC GO H ARTY’S PETITION. 



HEN first I saw Mary, we resided near London — 
it may now be some ten years ago (I believe a mar- 
ried lady may “ recollect” for a period of ten years, 
although it is not exactly pleasant to remember for 
a longer time) ; she was tall, flat, and bony, exceed- 
ingly clean and neat in her dress, and yet attended 
minutely to the costume of her country : her cloth 
petticoat was always sufficiently short to display her 
homely worsted stockings ; her gown was not spun 
out to any useless extension, but was met half way 
by her blue check apron — the “ gown-tail” being 
always pinned in three-corner fashion by a huge 
corking-pin ; her cap was invariably decorated bv 
a narrow lace border, “ rale thread” (for she ab- 
horred counterfeits), and secured on her head by a 
broad green riband. But Mary’s dress, strange as it 
was, never took off the attention from the expression of her extraordinary face ; 
it w r as marvellous to look upon ; and, had it been formed of cast-iron, could not 
have been more firm or immovable. Her forehead was high, and projected 
over large brown eyes, that wandered about unceasingly from corner to corner ; 

( 184 ) 


MARY MACGOHARTY S PETITION. ] 85 

her nose stiff, tightly cased in its parchment skin ; cheek-bones — high and pro- 
jecting; and such a mouth ! She talked unceasingly; but the lips moved directly 
up and down, like those of an eloquent bullfrog, never relaxing into a simper, 
much less a smile : even when she shed tears (for poor Mary had been acquainted 
with sorrow), they did not flow like ordinary tears, but came spouting — spouting 

from under her firm-set eyelids, and made their way down her sun-burnt cheeks, 
without exciting a single symptom of sympathy from the surrounding features. 
She was a good creature, notwithstanding ; sincere — I was going to say, to 
excess. She prided herself upon being a “ blunt, honest, God-fearing, and God- 
serving woman, as any in the three kingdoms, let t’ other be who she might,” and 
possessed a clan-like attachment to her employers. I have been frequently struck 
with the difference between Irish and English servants in this respect ; an English 
servant always endeavours to erect her standard of independence without any 
reference to her master’s name or fame ; but Paddys and Shelahs lug in the 
greatness, the ancient family, the virtues, and the wealth (when they possess any,) 
on all occasions. “ Sure, an’ Mabby, you may hould your whisht any way,” 
said one servant to another ; “ what dacency did you ever see ? Who did you 
live wid ? A taste of an English grocer ! — who hadn’t a drop of dacent blood 
in his veins — only trade , why ? — the poor spillogue ! — but I can lay my hand on 
my heart, and declare, in truth and honesty, that I always lived wid the best o’ 
good families ; and what signifies the trifle o’ wages in comparison to the 
nobility, and the credit ? Sure, if we must be slaves, it ’s a grate comfort to 
have the rale gintry over us !’-’ 

Mary performed her duty as cook in our service admirably, for some time, 
and was most trustworthy : but in an evil hour, on a Saint Patrick’s day, she 
obtained leave to visit her son, a soldier in the guards, to make holiday, and 
faithfully promised to be home by ten o’clock. Ten, eleven — no Mary ; at last, 
with the awful hour of twelve, came — no spirit from the vasty deep, I assure 
you, but Mary, poor Mary, in the watchman’s arms, perfectly — (and I sincerely 
grieve at being obliged to tell the truth), not ill, nor nervous, nor elevated, nor, 
as the Irish call it, “ disguised,” but absolutely, stupidly, and irrecoverably, tipsy ! 
What a piece of work there was in the house ! — cook was conveyed to bed, 
and, of course, dismissed the next morning. I was very sorry, I confess ; but 
mamma was never prone to alter her decree, and the duty was done. Mary 
cried — offered to take an oath against whiskey, gin, brandy, rum — anything and 
everything — if she might only obtain pardon; and, when all was useless, 
departed in sullen silence, hardly leaving “ God be wid ye ;” although she after- 
wards declared “ that, barring it would be a most cruel sin, and what no true- 
born Irish soul ever did, she would lave her curse wid Saint Patrick’s day for 
the rest of its life ; for when poor innocent people met to have 4 granough,’ they 
forgot themselves, to do honour to the holy saint — why not? though it’s a rale 
pity; and, och ! if the mistress herself would just now and thin take only a thim- 
bleful, she would not be so hard upon the poor craturs who are overtaken bv 
the drop.” 

24 


186 


MARY MACGOHARTY’s PETITION. 

It was a long time before I heard anything more of poor Mary; summer 
and winter, and again summer, and again winter, passed, and, at last, I became, 
from a giddy, laughing girl, a staid, reflective matron, with a tolerable share of 
cares, and a large portion of happiness of the sweetest kind, springing from a 
cheerful home, and beloved faces — its dearest ornaments ! I had almost for- 
gotten my old friend, her peculiarities, and her Saint Patrick’s frolic, when 1 
was, one morning, informed that an Irishwoman wanted to speak to me. In a 
few minutes Mary Macgoharty was ushered in — the very same as ever; even 
the corking-pin in the back of her gown seemed unmoved; there she stood, 
looking at me, with her midnight eyes, until, at last, the torrent poured down her 
wrinkled cheeks. 

“ And there ye are, God be good to ye ! — looking brave and hearty, only a 
dale fatter; och, it seems quite heart-cheering to see a body with kivered bones 
these bad times ! I ’m worn to a ’nottomy wid grief and hardship ; and I ’d have 
been often to see ye, before now, only ye ’re married, and I thought, may-be, 
the young master wouldn’t like to have a thing like me coming about the house ; 
only, ye mind the ould whiskey-man, the poor boy what used to bring it, ye 
know, from Donovan’s, that fetches it over from Cork, pure as anything, only 
not quite so strong — he can’t help that : well, I was strolling about, there, by 
Hyde Park Corner, and wondering how the people spent their money that lived 
in them big houses, and a cratur like me often in want of a mouthful o’ pratees, 
let alone bread, when who should I spy coming along — just the morral of the 
ould thing — but Paddy Dasey; his face as red as a turf fire; and his two bags, 
one swinging before, and one behind, to hould the whiskey jars. Well, ma’am, 
my dear, he had always the swing, as who should say, ‘ the street ’s my own ;’ 
and, on account (3f his being so tall, and the eye he has left always skying — 
he ’d ha’ walked over me, only I says, says I, ‘ Paddy, have ye no sight for an 
ould countrywoman?’ Well, he looks down, and, after a hearty shake by the 
hand, we walks fair and asy to a sate ; and then I tould him how long I ’d been 
out o’ place, and the heart trouble I ’d met with. Well, he wanted me to take a 
drop, very civil ; but I tould him of the obligation I had taken on myself when 
I left the best sarvice, the best mistress, and the nicest young lady that ever trod 
English ground ; and he remembered it, too ; for he used to come with the 
whiskey to the dear ould master (heaven be his bed — amin !) but, says he, why 
don’t you go see the young mistress ? I ’ll go bail she ’ll be glad to see ye : and 
then he spoke very handsome of his honour, yer husband, who, he says, is almost 
as good as if he was an Irishman like you ! — and tould me as how he sometimes 
bought whiskey, and that you had the bit and the sup, kind as ever ye had it 
whin ye used to taze the life out o’ me, by axing me always what o’clock it was, 
till that scald parrot, mistress’s pet, used to begin at four in the morning, ‘ Mary, 
what o’clock is it? — Mary, what o’clock is it?’ Ah, thin, what’s come of the 
parrot, Miss — ma’am — I ax yer pardon ?” 

“ It ’s dead, Mary.” 

“ Och, murder!— is she dead? Well, I’ll be dead myself soon; stiff as a 


MARY MACGOHARTY’S PETITION. 187 

red-herring, and no good in me even for the worms, for sorra a morsel o’ flesh 
is on my bones ! I thought I ’d just take Paddy Dasey’s advice, and tell ye my 
trouble; and now I’m just come to ye, for God’s sake, knowing ye can turn 
yer hand to the pen at any time ; and on account of ’Squire Bromby, who is 
here now, making speeches in the English Parliament, like ony Trojan as he 
is— though, for sartin, his father was not that afore him; though that’s neither 
here nor there, as a body may say. Now, on account of the young ’Squire 
(who isn t the ould, because the ould one ’s dead — small loss !) — seeing my father 
(he was a wonderful clear-spoken man, of a poor body, and had powerful lam- 
ing) lived a matter of five-and-forty years on the ’Squire Bromby’s estate (he 
that ’s dead, this boy’s father,) — I being a poor, desolate, lone woman, with no 
one belonging to me— barring the boy that’s in the Life Guards, and had the 
ill luck (God break hard fortune !) to marry a scrap of an English girl, who had 
neither family nor fortune, nor a decent tack to her back, and was married in 
a dab of a borrowed white rag of a gownd , not worth a teaster — and he a likely 
boy (and everybody knows the English girls ’ud give their eyes — small loss it 
’ud be to some of them — for an Irish boy) as ye ’d see in a day’s march (ye mind, 
my first husband was a soldier, and my second, too ; I ’m a Mac , in earnest, as a 
Dody may say ; my own name, Mac Manus ; my first’s name, Macgoharty ; 
my second’s, Mac Avoy ; — though I go by poor Jim’s name, Macgoharty — Mary 
Macgoharty, at your sarvice — becase I liked him the best; not but the second 
w T as a fine boy, too ; but there ’s nothing goes past first love) — well, I humbly 
ax yer pardon, but I always like to tell a thing out of the face at once, without 
any bating about the bush; so, as I was saying, my poor father (God rest his 
soul !) lived five-and-forty years to the good on his honour’s father’s estate, in 
pace, plinty, and contintment, and no one could iver say to him, ‘ black is the 
white o’ yer eye.’ May-be ye mind whin ould ’Squire Bromby was returned 
lor Tipperary — though it ’s as much as ye can, for ye weren’t born at the time ; 
and who set up, too, but Jack Johnson? — ’Squire Jack they called him; — 
though I was but a girleen at the time, I niver could turn my tongue to say 
‘ ’Squire Jack,’ and he only a bit of a brewer ; well, my father (oh ! he was down 
honest) stood up for the ould gentry ; and, seeing he was so main strong, ’Squire 
Bromby made him one of the picked men at the election ; and, by the same 
token, the shillalah he had went whirring through the air like a shuttlecock ; 
now cracking one skull, now another — now lighting here, now there — spanking 
about with rale glory; from the beginning to the end, it neither gave, nor had, 
rest or pace. Well, there niver was such an election seen before or since; such 
tearing and murdering ; Jack’s boys killing ’Squire Bromby’s boys, and ’Squire 
Bromby’s boys skivering * the Jackeens’ (as we called them) like curlews. Well, 
that wasn’t all; but one night (it was either the second or third day of the 
election) the ould ’Squire calls my father o’ one side. ‘Mister Mac Manus,’ 
says he. ‘ Don’t Mister me,’ says my father, ‘ if you plaze, becase mister is no 
part o’ my name, yer honour ; I ’m plain James Mac Manus ;’ and my father (he 
was very proud) stood stiff as an oak of the forest. ‘Well, then,’ says the 


188 


MARY MACGOHARTY’s PETITION. 


Squire, fox-like, ‘ honest James Mac Manus, my good friend, ye’ve stood firm 
to me for the honour of ould Ireland — a good friend, indeed, have ye been to 
me ; and it ’s I won’t forget it ; but clap yer eye, James, my boy, upon any situa- 
tion in the three kingdoms, spake but the word, and ’t is yours.’ ‘ Thanks to 
yer honour — many thanks to yer honour.’ My father was a well-spoken man, 
but, innocent-like (he was no ways ’cute), took it all for gospil. Well, my jewel, 
the next day they fell to it again, and my father in the thick of it, to be sure, 
like a great giount, tattering all before him, stronger nor ever ; and more be- 
tokens, Jack Johnson (it ’s only justice to tell the truth) had powers o’ money, 
and made no bones o’ the boys atin’ and drinkin’ at his expinse ; he was a fine 
portly man, with a handsome rich nose, and deeshy-dawshy eyes, for all the 
world like a rat’s, squinkin’ and blinkin’ under the dickon’s own bushy, black 
winkers — och, so thundery ! And, as the rale ancient ’Squire’s tongue wasn’t 
hung asy, and the other’s went upon wires — why, he had the advantage there, 
too : — and a bitter ruction it was ; all the boys, more or less, had smashed heads, 
and they tied them up with garters, or stockings, or sugans, or anything the 

owners came across, to keep the bones together. Why 1 but the spirit and 

the shillalahs held out bravely ! And the last day came — as it will upon the 
best of us some time or other ; and, after all, ’Squire Bromby carried it, through 
thick and thin. 

“Well, I’ll say that for Jack Johnson — though only a brewer, he bore up 
like a king — not a taste out o’ temper all the time, only as gay as a lark, caper- 
ing about like a good one. Bromby-park was a good ten mile from the town, 
and nothing would do my father (for he was perfect mad with the joy), but he 
put up the boys to draw the new member thim ten miles, like a pack of horses 
(more like asses as my mother said), and no bad load either ; a heavy lump of 
a man, good and bad blood — though, to tell God’s truth, there was more of 
that last. Well, away they went, huzzaing and shouting, and got him to the 
house in less than no time ; when, fair and asy, out he steps, makes a bow, 
and an up-and-down taste of a speech, first swaying on one leg, then on the 
other, like a bothered goose ; and turns into the house, without as much as 
offering even a drop of smalkum to a mother’s son of the whole of thim. Well, 
after this, all the country called shame on him — the tame negre ! and what made 
it worse, Jack Johnson gave his boys, even after, plinty of entertainment, and 
said that, if he did lose the election, those who voted for him could not help it, 
and, consequently should not suffer for it. After it was all passed, and the people 
came to their senses again, father thought it was time to put him in mind of his 
word (mother tould him how it would be), and so he set off, making a dacent 
appearance, to put the ’Squire in mind of his promise. What d ’ye think he 
said, and he o’ horseback, in his scarlet jock, as grand as a Turkey-man ? — * Oh, 
yer name is James Mac Manus. Well, James, how is the woman that owns you, 
and the children — all well, ay ! Place, indeed — hard things to get — wish I’d a 
good one myself. Good morning, James — good morning:’ and off he rode. 
Father was so stomached, that he would never go near him again: ‘ For,’ says 


MARY MACGOH ARTY’S PETITION. 189 

ne, ‘ though he ’s a mimber of parliament, he ’s no gentleman that doesn’t value 
his word ; I ’m sure I don’t know how he came to be such a cankered thing 
(unless he was changed at nurse), for the breed of the family was always the top 
of the gentry.’ Well, honey, dear, may-be I ’m tiring ye too much intirely, but 
never heed, I’m a’most done; ye see, Lord help us! my father’s dead, and the 
ould ’Squire ’s dead. I ’m in a strange country, and even my boy has no love 
for the sod, seeing he wasn’t born on it, nor never saw the green, green grass 
or the clear water, or heard the little birds sing among the beautiful woods, 
bright and blooming with the hawthorn, and the brier, and the wild crab-tree; 
it wasn’t so with my Annie, my daughter, my only girl, who was born there 
before my husband took to soldiering ; and she was so like him — his very moral ; 
but she ’s gone — buried near Dunleary, they tell me — and I shall never see her 
soft blue eye upon me, nor hear her voice, nor — but I ax yer pardon, madam — 
I ought not to be troubling ye after such a fashion. 

“They were pleasant woods that I sported among in my innocent morning; 
and ye ’d hardly think, to look now upon my withered skin, and my dim eye, 
and my grey hair, that I was once likely, and had the pick of the boys for a 
husband; but they’re both gone from me, and the English daughter-in-law 
looks could enough upon the ould Irish mother-in-law ! But, you see, the young 
’Squire ’s got a brave name, and is over here with the commoners — and, I am 
tould, a noble-spirited, true gentleman; so I was just thinking, as ye’re handy 
with the pen, may-be ye ’d write him (for me) a taste of a letter, just to put him 
in mind, ye know, that my father lived upon his father’s land, and telling him 
how poor I am — (an’ sure that ’s true for me ! for, bad luck to the tack, I have 
but what I stand upright in) ; sure I made this petticoat (and it’s a tidy one too) 
out of the grey cloak I got last winter (winter ’s a hard time on the poor) was 
two years, to keep me dacent, and my poor bones from freezing, and never dis- 
graced my country, by being behoulden to man or mortal — only, why the poor 
has a nataral claim upon estated gintlemin, ye know ; and just ax him civilly to 
give me two or three pounds (he ’ll never miss it, my darlin lady, never), to send 
me home, where there ’s ould people still I ’d be glad to see, more partiklar my 
bothered sister, who lives nigh were my poor girl lies, jist by Dublin. I ’ve had 
two warnings for death (they always followed my family), and I know 
I can’t last long; only ye’re sinsible, ma’am, nixt to dying in pace wid 
God and man, there ’s nothing like laving one’s bones among one’s own ; thin, 
ye know, it ’s pleasant not to be among strangers at the resurrection ; so I was 
thinking ” 

“ In one vrord, Mary, you want me to write a petition for you to ’Squire 
Bromby, as you call him 

“ Exactly — och, you ’ve hit it now ! — ye were always mighty quick that a 
wa y_ m ay God bless ye ! — but mind, lady dear, not a word of the past, ye know ; 
it would be bad manners to be putting the dacent, noble young gentleman in 
mind of his ould foolish father’s quare capers.” 

“ Then, Mary, you need not have told me of them.” 


190 


MARY MACGOHARTY’S PETITION. 


“ Well, now, that bates all ; why, how could ye get the understanding of the 
thing, if I did not tell ye ? — sure you must know the rights of the thing, ony way 
as the ould song says — 

‘ I do not care for speculation — 

But tell to me the truth at onct.’ ” 

“Well, I dare say, Mary, you were quite right; but now, as you have given 
me understanding, allow me to commit your ideas to paper/’ 

Poor Mary ! I saw her a few days after my scribbling, at her request, the 
petition she was so anxious about. She was as neat as a bride. New shawl, 
new bonnet, new petticoat, even a new corking-pin in the gown-tail ; for, as the 
dress was of “ stubborn stuff,” it needed a strong restraint to keep the corners in 
proper order. She was very happy, and very grateful to “ ’Squire Bromby” and 
me ; and, as she seemed only disposed to talk of “ Dublin Bay herrings,” — 
“ Kerry cows,” — “ travelling expinses,” (which she had fractionally counted up) 
— “ turf,” — “ pratees,” — and “ Ould Ireland,” I soon made my adieus ; faithfully 
promising, if I visited Erin in the ensuing season, not to forget paying my com- 
pliments to her in her sister’s cabin ; where, she assured me, “ their very hearts’ 
blood should be shed to do me and mine sarvice !” 

I was enabled to keep my word. 

#**###### 

Oh, but the suburbs of Dublin are miserable! — miserable! — so miserable 
that were I to attempt to describe them, your kind hearts would sicken ; you 
would close the page, and not accompany me on my peregrination to the turn 
which opens direct on the Dunleary road. In the distance, the expanded Bay 
of Dublin, glittering like molten silver — innumerable vessels sleeping, as it were, 
upon its glorious waters, all glowing in the rich brightness of the morning sun, 
formed a background worthy Turner’s own gorgeous pencil. Amongst the 
groups of ragged, but cheerful, peasants, I soon found a guide to conduct me to 
Mary’s dwelling, and gazed upon her little cottage, hardly worthy the name ; but, 
nevertheless, so sweetly situated, that its extreme poverty was atoned for by its 
picturesque appearance. It was built, literally, on the side of a hill, for part of 
the eminence formed the back wall of the dwelling; the roof was covered over 
with lichens and moss, that mingled with the long grass, blossoming brambles, 
and feathery ragweed, of the overhanging common. As the hill ascended, it 
was tufted with richly-foliaged trees ; and, below the cabin, a clear sparkling 
stream trickled and murmured quietly along its channel, except where some 
firm-set stone or saucy brier intercepted its way ; and then it grumbled outright, 
and sent forth a tiny foam, expressive of its anger ! The pig had its own proper 
dwelling, hollowed out of the hill, and, whether he liked it or not, there he was 
compelled to stay, by an antiquated chair-back, that was placed across the 
entrance ; and through its openings he could only thrust his nose, which, from 
its extreme length, made me suspect he was an uncivilized Connaught pig. A 
few fowl of the noble Dorking breed, with magnificent toppings, were wandering 


MARY MACGOHARTY’s PETITION. 191 

about the meadows, and a noisy hen was storming, with might and main, at her 
duckling progeny, who, heedless of her eloquence, paddled in and out of the 
stieamlet, in perfect safety: it was a calm, and, after all, a pleasing picture. 
The Irish, w T hen suffering the greatest privations, never lose their elastic spirits, 
and, even from that lowly hut, came the merry notes of “ Planxty Kelly,” 
although sung by a feeble voice. I wanted to enter unperceived, but a busy cur 
d°g yelped so loudly, that an aged woman came courtesying to the door — no 
Mary. I thought I had mistaken the cottage, and was just going to inquire, 
when I perceived a female figure in the act of dusting the turf ashes off the 
hearth with her apron : her back was to me ; but there was no mistaking the 
corking-pin — there it was in the self-same spot of the pinned-up gown tail ! 

How delighted she was to see me !— “ How ashamed that she had nothing to 
offer me !— her sister’s grand-daughter was jist gone to market with a few eggs 
— but, sure, Kate Kearney was on the nest, at the far corner, and she ’d soon lay, 
and thin it would be worth atin’ ! — she was a beautiful hen ! Or she wouldn’t be a 
minute whipping the head off one of thim long-legged pullets, the giddy craturs ! 

small use it was to them ! — and grill it like fun in the ashes ! Or she would 
catch the goat for some milk — sure they had grass for a goat ; Nanny gave such 
nice milk — only, bad cess to the cat ! there was no keeping a drop in the house 
for her ; they had nothing to kiver it, and she took the pig’s share and her 
own ; they wanted to fat him up to pay the rint, which he did regular, except 
last year, when he (the one that ’s dead) got the measles, and that was a sad loss 
to them.” 

The cabin was very poorly furnished ; for the pig, the poultry, eggs, and 
even the little spinning and knitting the two old women could do, were insuffi- 
cient to bestow upon them much comfort ; and, besides that, they had an 
orphan relative, who had just sufficient intellect to sell the eggs, and, with true 
Irish feeling, they shared with her whatever they possessed. Then came the 
inquiries as to the “ ould mistress and the young master,” and every living thing 
she could remember as pertaining to our household. When I bade them good 
day, Mary hoped I ’d let her show me the short cut ; “ a dale pleasanter, although, 
may-be, a few steps longer .” As we wended down a narrow glen, carpeted with 
the short, thick, downy grass, that sheep so much delight to browse upon, I asked 
Mary if she was happy ? 

“Happy! — why, middling, God be thanked! middling so: an ould body, 
like me, has none, nor ought to think o’ none, o’ that quick joy that sets the 
heart dancing, and the blood mounting and tearing through the veins like mad. 
But the ould have the quiet and the content ; the mist moves from their eyes ; 
and they see everything past, and many things to come, as they are ; they know 
that the heart’s fresh hope will bud, and may-be bloom, but certainly fade ; good 
luck, if it doesn’t fade, or be cut off afore it bloom. Sure I ’m joyous to see the 
young things around me dancing like the merry waters, for I know there’ll be 
time enough for the salt, salt tears, with the best of ’em, whether they last long 
or short ; and all I can do, I do — prav that the grate God will keep ’em from 


192 


MARY MACGOHARTY’S PETITION. 

sin, and then they never can taste the worst o’ sorrow ; for bitter is the bed, and 
hard, o’ the black sinner ; which, thank God, no one belonging to me ever was ; 
and the priest (God rest his soul !) often said that, whin we went to make a clean 
breast it’s little trouble he had with us: and the hardest pilgrimage my father 
ever made, was twice to the Lady’s Island, and that wasn’t for much, in so long 
a life. When I came over, I thought it only fitting to have a few masses said 
for the rest of my poor girl’s soul ! — but the priest (och, he ’s the good man !) 
tould me half as much would do as was customary — on account she was such a 
God-serving girl ; — never missed a confession in her life. I ’ll show ye where 
she lays ; and I ’ve taken an obligation on myself never to pass the grave with- 
out one avy. Whin we turn this knock, we ’ll come right upon the poor ould 
churchyard, all so quiet and lonesome by itself! — that’s not the way it ’ll be at 
the last day ! God help me !” 

When we “ turned the knock” — I was charmed by the old churchyard ; it 
changed completely the style of the landscape — as it stood at the commence- 
ment of a long marsh — a little elevated above its level ; and the prospect on 
that side our path was terminated by hills above hills — some slightly wooded — 
others resting, as it were, against the clear blue sky, huge masses of many-tinted 
rock. The building must have been one of very ancient structure; what 
remained was overgrown by ivy, and here and there a solitary tree shadowed 
the mouldering walls and half-fallen arches ; there were few tomb-stones — nought 
but “ green grass mounds,” headed by small wooden crosses — some without 
any inscription — others simply marked thus — 

t 

IHS 

One ponderous relic of ancient days, however, stood in a corner of the church- 
yard, at which a young man and woman were kneeling. 

When Mary had repeated her customary prayer, she rejoined me, observing 
“ she would take longer next time, only she could not bear to keep me waiting 
in sich a dismal place.” 

“ Mary,” I inquired, “ can I take any message back to your son, in case his 
regiment should have returned to London ?” 

“ Oh ! God bless ye for that thought ! sure can ye — and my heart was burstin’ 
to ax ye, only I thought, may-be, ye’d think bad of my making so bould. Ye 
see, ma’am, dear, I thought my sister was better to do in the world ; or I ’d 
hardly ha’ troubled her, and the times so bad ; but my heart bates to see the 
boy — and I don’t want him here, because I know the English girl would be 
skitting at the poor cabin ; and, above all things, ye know, agra, I niver could 
bear a slur cast upon the country ; I don’t say but (though I ’d be long sorry to 
let them English hear me) there’s a dale more comfort, and eatin’, and such as 
that, among ’em — and they ’re study, honest, surly sort o’ people — no variety in 
’em at all — all the one way, all asy going — without much spirit, but a dale o’ 
comfort. Now seeing I got a fresh lease o’ my life by breathing such air as this 
— though I ’m old — yet I find I can’t settle myself parfect for death without once 


MARY MACGOHARTY’S PETITION. 


193 


mors seeing the boy — and seeing London; and so will ye tell him — God bless 
ye ! — that, after this winter, I will have enough to carry me over, an’ back, may- 
be, on account, ye know, of laving my bones in the grey churchyard — near my 
poor girl ; but, if I shouldn’t have enough, ma’am, dear, sure you ’ll be to the 
fore, and it ’s little ye ’d think o’ writing me another petition /—I ’ll engage ye ’re 
as nimble at the pen as ever. And if ye see the boy’s wife, and she axes any 
questions, jist put the best face upon it, ma’am, honey, for the honour of ould 
Ireland ! So my blessing be about ye wherever ye go ; and the blessing of all 
the saints, and St. Patrick’s at the head of thim ! Sure, it ’s a happy sight to see 
his beautiful head (the steeple I mean) watching above that sweet, illigint city — 
that the devil has no power over — the joy of my heart ye are, Dublin agra !” 

I bade her adieu, and was proceeding on my way; Mary took my hand, 
pressed it affectionately to her heart and lips, and the tears showered on it ; she 
could not speak her farewell blessing, but fixed her large eyes on me as I departed, 
with more expression of feeling than I had ever before witnessed ! Poor Mary ! 
— winters and summers have passed, but I have seen her no more ! — She needs 
no more petitions. 




FATHER MIKE. 



AY Heaven defend us! — did you ever hear sich a 
storm? — and the snow’s as good as knee-deep this 
blessed minit, in the yard; it’s hard to say whether 
sleet, snow, or hail, is the bittherest, for they are all 
drifting together, and always in a body’s face. Martin, 
is there no sign of his reverence yet ?” 

Martin, who had been industriously stuffing some 
straw into his huge brogue, and Molly M‘Clathery, 
who had made the inquiry, rose at the same moment, 
opened the window-shutter, looked forth upon the night, 
and listened, in hopes to hear the wonted tokens of the 
priest’s return. 

In the kitchen of old Father Mike, the usual “ family 
circlo” had assembled, of which Molly and Martin 
formed a principal part. The house stood on a bleak 
hill-side, exposed to the full rush of the sea blast, with- 

( 194 ^ 



FATHER MIKE. 


195 

out a tree to shelter either dwelling, barn, or hayrick. On such a night, its 
exterior presented anything but a comfortable appearance; it was an ill-built, 
slated house, flanked by thatched offices, which formed a sort of triangle, at the 
smallest point of which a wide gate stood, or rather hung, almost always open, 
to say the truth, it was only supported by one hinge, the other never having 
been repaired since the county member’s carriage frightened it to pieces, when 
he visited the worthy priest, a month or two before the last general elec- 
tion; although Father Mike had, a thousand times, directed Martin to get 
it mended, and Martin had as often replied, “ Yes, plase yer reverence, I'll see 
about it .” 

At the back of the house nearly an acre of land was enclosed, as “ a garden ;” 
but the good priest cared little for vegetables, and less for flowers ; and it was, 
of course, overrun with luxuriant weeds, insolently triumphant, in the summer 
time, over the fair but dwindling rose, or timid lily, that still existed, but looked 
as if they pined and mourned at the waste around them. The inside of the 
dwelling was rambling and inconvenient ; it had a dark entrance-hall, or passage, 
a kitchen, a parlour, a cellar, on the ground floor ; while a sort of ladder stair- 
case led to the upper chambers. The kitchen was the general family room, the 
parlour being reserved for company, and kept in tolerable order by the priest’s 
niece, a dark-eyed little lass of sixteen. 

Martin and Molly had resumed their seats on a black oak settle, that occu- 
pied one side of the large open chimney : Molly, of spindle-like stiffness, her 
lean figure and scraggy neck supporting a face “ broad as a Munster potato,” 
while her wide mouth, and long, sharp teeth, betokened her passion for talking 
and eating: Martin, whose shaggy elf-locks clustered thickly over a well- 
formed forehead, and deep-set but bright grey eyes, resembled, very much 
resembled, a cluricawn — that particularly civil, wily, sharp-sighted Irish fairy ; 
Martin Finchley was almost as little, quite as knowing, quite as clever, and by 
trade a brogue maker, to which fraternity all cluricawns belong ; yet the straw 
peeped forth from his brogues ! Ah ! but Martin was a genius — knew more of 
everybody and everything than any man in the county, sung a good song, told a 
goocL&tory, brought home the cows, fed the pigs, minded the horse, and performed 
: dfcmestic offices in the priest’s establishment, yet found time to learn all 
the m&ws, and nurse half the children in the parish. Molly and he had lived 
fifteen years with Father Mike, and had never passed a day, during that period, 
without quarrelling, to the great amusement of Dora Hay, the priest’s little 
niece, who was now kneeling at the other side of the fire, her wheel , laid aside, 
while she carefully administered some warm milk to a young lamb that had 
suffered much from the heavy snow. Two large dogs, a cat, and a half-grown 
kitten, shared also the wide hearthstone, and enjoyed the bright, cheerful light 
of a turf and wood fire. On an old-fashioned table, partially covered with a 
half-bleached cloth, was spread the priest’s supper; a large round of salted 
beef, a silver pint mug, with an inscription somewhat worn by time, an 
unbroken cake of griddle bread, with a “ pat” of fresh butter on a wooden 


196 


FATHER MIKE. 


platter, and two old bottles, containing something much stronger than water 
An antique arm-chair, with an embroidered but much soiled cushion, was 
placed opposite the massive silver handled knife and fork; — all awaiting his 
reverence’s coming. From the rafters of this wild-looking apartment hung 
various portions of dried meat, fish, and pigs’ heads, the latter looking ghastly 
enough in the flickering light. The dresser, which, as usual in Irish kitchens, 
extended the whole length of the room, made a display of rich china, yellow 
delf, wooden noggins, dim brass, and old, but chased-silver candlesticks. A long 
deal “ losset,” filled to overflowing with meal and flour, was (if I may use the 
expression) united to the wall by a heap of potatoes, on which a boy, or “ runner,’’ 
was sleeping as soundly as if he had. been pillowed on down ; a large herring 
barrel, a keg of whiskey on a stand, to “be handy like,” and a firkin of butter, 
occupied the spaces along the wall of the apartment. 

Still the storm continued. The fire w r as again heaped, and yet the master 
was absent. 

“ Miss Dora, my darlint,” said Molly M’Clathery, after a very long pause, 
“go to bed, agra, yer eyes are heavy for sleep, and no wonder, for it ’s a’most 
elivin by the ould clock. Martin, I thought ye w^ere to get the clock settled, 
but it’ll be like the gate widout the hinge, and the windy widout the glass, and 
the mare’s leg; to say nothing of the wine last summer, that worked itself to 
vinegar, for want of a bung. His reverence is a dale too quiet for all of ye. 
Whin Jacky the tinker was married — (sure may-be, I don’t remember it !) — he 
comes here, and talks his reverence over not to ax the money for the wedding 
until the nixt time he was wanting. Well, at the first christening my chap had 
the same story, and so on, putting his reverence off, from that to the next, and 
the next, and the next, and so on, till the seventh brat came. Well, that was all 
well, as a body may say ; and at last his reverence, knowing he was getting 
powers of money, jist mintioned the ould score : — five shillings for the wedding, 
and then six christenings at a thirteen and a tester each. And, what does the 
spalpeen ? — as keen as the north wind : ‘ Oh, very well,’ says he, ‘ as yer rever- 
ence plazes, only there’s Friar Kannet christens for half-price, and the protestant 
minister for nothing, and one ’s as good as another.’ And, to be sure, to sa^the 
soul of the grawl, his reverence gives up intirely, and makes the tiling^ a fyfly 
Catholic, out and out at once, for nothing.” ‘ 

“ Will ye hould yer clack, Molly ! What do I care about Jacky the tinker ? 
— and as to the wine, it was as much your fault, and more, than mine. And for 
the mare’s leg, how the plague could I hinder her breaking it if she liked, and I 
three mile off at the same time ? But I won’t be spinding my breath on ye : 
only — bad luck to all famales !” 

“ Thank you, Martin,” said Miss Dora, who had been really half asleep, her 
small foot resting on the step of the wheel, and the thread hanging on her finger, 
while her head fell carelessly on her delicate shoulder. 

“ I humbly ax yer pardon, Miss Dory ; I didn’t mane you to hear that ; it was 


FATHER MIKE. 197 

only the like o’ she I meant, that can never let well enough alone, but ’s ever- 
more naggin’, naggin’, naggin’, at a body, like a swaddling pracher.” 

“Martin, I’ll tell ye what it is — give us none o’ yer impudence! — for 
I haven’t been Father Mike’s housekeeper, or Miss Dora’s nurse, for fifteen 
years, to stand talk from a man, much less from you, ye dawshy clod- 
hopper !” 

“Stop, Molly!” interrupted Dora; “stop; you are sometimes a little cross; 
and it is too late to quarrel to-night. I wish you would go to bed ; and I will 
wait up for my uncle.” 

“ Och, no, my dear — and lave you by yerself in this big kitchen ! Save us ! 
— d ’ye hear how that boy is snoring I Dick ! Dick ! — wake up, 1 say ; what 
does his reverence give ye mate, drink, and clothing for? — is it to lie there 
snoring, as comfortable, on thim illegant pratees, as the king on his throne, when 
yer master, a holy man like him, is out in the could snow ?” 

“ Sure, ye may let the boy alone, he ’s doin’ no harm ; he ’s not wanted till 
his reverence comes home, and then I ’ll wake him, to hould the light for the 
horse to the stable.” 

“ He shall wake now ; one idle body ’s enough in the house, Martin Finchely ;” 
and in her own way she proceeded to effect her purpose. Dick roared lustily at 
the blow which reached him, while Martin very quietly observed, “ Now that 
she ’s upturned everything, may-be she ’ll be asy herself.” And so she was, for, 
kneeling with her face to the wall, she commenced gabbling over her prayers, 
“ to keep her employed,” as she said, till his reverence came in. Dora, to beguile 
the time, entered into conversation with Martin. 

“ Martin, was there any news stirring this morning?” 

“ Nothing worth much, Miss ; it ’s very dead for news now, on account 
that Mary-the-Mant ’s gone to Waxford, and Mrs. Murphy (oh, what a 
fine-spoken woman that is !) has jist got two young ones that keeps her 
widin; — and the poor widdy Mooney is out o’ sorts. I wish ye’d jist say a 
kind word for her, the cratur, to his reverence, Miss, dear — may-be, the morrow, 
whin he ’s takin’ his punch afther dinner ; — sure he spoke to her from the altar 
last Sunday, on account of her havin’ tasted something besides new milk 
in the mornin’ — poor thing ! She has a wake head, and a warm heart, and a 
nimble tongue, (not that she ’s by any manner o’ manes as fine spoken a woman 
as Mrs. Murphy — far from it), but, any way, she’s almost ashamed to let the 
bames o’ day see her face; sure she can’t help her wake head, the sowl! — 
and she’ll niver recover — barring you spake the soft word for a poor distressed 
neighbour.” 

“ Oh, Martin, you know she is always tipsy.” 

“ Oh, no, ’pon my conscience, Miss, she niver takes more nor a noggin afore 
breakfast, and, any way, she can’t help it — it ’s the natur o’ the cratur. Oh, do 
spake the good word !” 

“ Martin, did La very get the saddle back !” 

“Och, thin, I know I had somethin’ to tell ye; ay, sure enough, it came of 


198 


FATHER MIKE. 


itself, seemingly ; sated quiet and civil at the door this mornin’; and it’s Friar 
Donovan Jack Lavery may thank for that ; for Jack complained it to him, how 
he lost his beautiful saddle as good as new, for his father bought it a little afore 
he died, and ’t is not much above ten years agone, and what signifies the few 
times it was crossed, an’ it a Dublin saddle! So Friar Donovan, like a good 
Christian, didn’t wish the poor man to be at the loss of the saddle, and so, says 
he, an’ he praching for Father Clancy in the chapel of Rathangan, says he 
(he ’s a powerful man), says he — I know the boy that stole that saddle (as well 
he might, for I knew him myself), and what ’s more, says he, if he that has it 
does not return it to honest Jack Lavery afore to-morrow night, he ’ll be riding 

upon the same saddle through ; I ax yer pardon, it ’s not fit for a young 

lady to hear; only it’s the devil’s coort he meant, and said it out plump and 
plain in the face of the congregation — he ’ll be riding through the very hot place 
afore this day week, says he, if he doesn’t return it immediately ; and sure 
enough Jack has got the saddle, for it was sated quietly down at his own door 
the next mornin’ early.” 

“Well, Martin, I am glad of it. Any more news?” 

“Oh, nothin’ particular; only ye hard, no doubt, how discontented Father 
O’Shea (God be good to him !) was, at being buried in the black North, whin 
his own people had sich comfortable lodging in their own place, and how he came 
to his brother Mick, the farmer ; and Mick, says he, how d ’ye think I can lie 
asy in the wet, could, damp hole, they put me in, and all my people so snug in 
th£ir own place ; take me up says he — (och, Molly, ye need not stare, for it ’s as 
thrue as the beads in yer hand !) — take me up, says he, and put me in warm 
berring-ground ; for if ye don’t I ’ll give ye no pace, and ye ’ll have no luck — to 
lave your brother, and he a priest, in such a sitiation ! Stale me away, says he. 
Now, to be sure, the brother knew that it was far from right to take a priest 
from the berring-ground of his flock, where he was placed so proper, facing his 
congregation ’ginst the day of judgment. Nevertheless, what must be must be 
— so they stole him off in the dead o’ the night, and settled him comfortable in 
the ould churchyard yonder, in the middle of his own people ; it cost a power o’ 
money — but niver mind, he ’s asy now.” 

“ I dare say,” continued Martin, after a long pause, “ it was jist sich a night 
as this that the bitter desolation came upon the ancient, fine, ould town of Ban- 
now ; for, no doubt, Miss Dory, you that has such laming knows that there ’s an 
entire town under thim sand-hills. The sea rushed in one night, and all the 
craturs o’ sinners asleep, quite innocent-like, were kilt and spilt. And when the 
sea went back to its own place — bad luck to it ! — the storm came, and the sand 
heaped in mountains over the dead town ; and, barring the church, that was on 
a high hill, every living house was kivered over, only one chimbly, that used to 
return a borough member, before the Union and Lord Castlereagh, and the likes 
o’ thim, murdered ould Ireland intirely.” 

“ But the proof, Martin, the proof!” inquired Dora, laughing. 

“ Is it proof ye’re wanting, my darlint Miss? why, isn’t the town to the fore, 


FATHER MIKE. 


190 

underground 1 — and isn’t there, in Waxford city, the books to prove that as good 
as six streets, in the ould town of Bannow, paid cess, and tithe, and tolls ?— and 
the cockle-strand, where the girleens are picking cockles ?— sure, that ’s a proof; 
for it ’s out o’ that the sand come. The gintry talk of digging it up, and unkiver- 
ing the sunk houses: but those that have money don’t care, and those that have 
not— why, they can’t, ye know. Ye ’ve seen the curious font inside the church ; 
the rain water that falls in it is holy of itself— Lord save us ! Father Grashby, 
ye know, said it was a shame to lave such a beautiful cut stone in an ould church ; 
and so, without saying so much as ‘ by yer lave’ to priest or minister, he claps 
the blessed relic in his* own new T chapel, tin miles off, as quiet as anything. 
To be sure, ye mind, whin the whole parish cried shame — and such a hulla-boo- 
loo as there was ! — the women skreetching for the dear life, and saying (true 
for ’em) that the luck was gone for iver and iver from us : but the very nixt 
night — (now, ma’am, don’t be always skitting that way : I ax yer pardon, but 
it ’s not what I ’d expect from the likes o’ you, to trate holy things so ; and what 
I ’m telling is as true as gospel — I ’d take my bible oath of it !) — the very nixt 
night such a storm as you never heard, nor any one else ; and a bur-r-r, boo. 
ooo-b-o-o-o, through the air ; and the font went over the house-tops and the trees, 
like a shot, whirring and bubbling, and bright as a star, and lit all along through 
the sky by the dazzling candles of the good people before and behind, shouting, 
chirming, and making such sweet music, through the whirlwind — and fair and 
softly, they niver stopped till they placed the font in its ould place, and whir and 
away the charmers, to their homes in the blue-bells, and the rose-buds, and the 
wather-foam — ” 

“ Lord save us !” ejaculated Molly, and muttered her prayers faster than ever. 
A long pause ensued, and, half asleep, Dora inquired if there had been a dance 
at the public that evening ? 

“ Sorra a one,” replied Martin, “ whin I came away. I just looked in a minit ; 
Phil Waddy, and yer cousin Brian, and one or two more, were there; and, 
by the same token, Raking Phil has a wicked look about the eyes when he ’s 
crossed.” 

“ I never saw him look wicked,” replied Dora, quickly. “ He always looked 
so kind and good-tempered, and ” 

A loud knocking prevented Dora’s finishing the sentence. Shag and his com- 
panion gave each one bark, and then ran wagging their tails to the door. 

All were on their feet in a moment. Before Martin could hold the bridle rein, 
Father Mike (for it was the long expected priest) had dismounted, and with 
unwonted alacrity entered the kitchen, without the usual salutation of “ God save 
all here !” 

“ Dear uncle,” said Dora, taking his hand as he sat down, “ let me take off 
this coat ; what is the matter ? — sure something has happened ye ; speak, my 
dear uncle!” and the affectionate girl unbuttoned the collar; then, suddenly 
starting back, exclaimed, “ Good God ! here is blood, wet blood, upon yer 
cravat ! — dear, dear uncle, you are hurt — hurt !” and poor Dora, who did not 


FATHER MIKE. 


200 

possess much mental or bodily strength, nearly fainted on her uncle’s arm. The 
old priest kissed her forehead, but it was some moments before he could reply. 
At length he said : — 

“ It is nothing, child ; a mere nothing ! — the bough of a tree, broken by the 
storm, might have scratched me here as it fell and he pointed to his throat,, 
where more collected witnesses would easily have perceived a broken bough 
could not have harmed him ; it satisfied, however, the innocent Dora, and the 
stupid Molly : and in a few minutes the priest was seated at the table. 

“ You don’t eat, sir,” said Dora ; “ you have, perhaps, supped at Mr. Herriott’s, 
or at one of the farmers’.” 

“ No, my dear.” 

“ Then do you not like the beef.” 

“ Thank God, child, it is very good.” 

“ Well, let me make you some punch, nice whiskey-punch ; here ’s hot water, 
sugar — white sugar — all ye want ; and, ye know, I ’m a capital hand.” 

“ I know ye ’re as dear to me, Dory, as ever born child was to father or 
mother. Make what ye please for yer old uncle. Molly you and the boys may 
go to bed ; I shan’t be long, and it ’s Tuesday mornin’ by this time.” 

“ Hadn’t Miss betther go to bed V 9 inquired Molly ; “ sure I ’ll sit up and do 
whatever ’s wanted wid all pleasure, as in duty bound, plase yer reverence.” 

“No Molly, do you go.” Molly retired, and, after a short pause, Father 
Mike spoke : “ Dory, dear ! — have ye said yer prayers to-night V 9 

“ No, Sir.” 

“ Kneel down, then, love, at my knee, as ye ’ve done, off and on, since my 
poor sister died — and that ’s more than fourteen years ago ; ye ’ll be seventeen 
yer next birthday.” 

Dora smiled, and knelt as she was desired. 

“ Stop ! — before you begin, child, take an obligation on yourself, to answer 
truly to every word I question, when ye ’ve done ; there, don’t blush so ; my 
sister’s child, I know has nothing to hide from her confessor and friend.” 

Dora prayed in tremulous accents, and, perhaps, she never looked so lovely 
as at that moment: her brown hair — long, thick and somewhat curled— hung 
over, but did not conceal, the expression of her upturned face ; her eyes were 
half closed, and the lids were beautifully fringed with dark lashes ; her com- 
plexion, though somewhat embrowned, was delicate, and the lower part of her 
face, particularly her quivering lip, expressed feelings as yet undefined, but 
powerful: the priest’s arms were crossed on his bosom; and when his eyes 
rested on the child of his adoption, his lips moved with the increased earnestness 
of heartfelt prayer. 

“ Now, Dora, sit down ; not on that low seat — ye ’re always crouching at my 
feet like a frightened hare; when Philip Waddy was here, yesterday morning, 
what did he say to you ? — keep yer hand from yer face, and answer me !” 

“ Say, uncle V 9 

“ Yes, child, say.” 


FATHER MIKE. 


201 


“ Why, he said that it was a very fair morning.” 

“ Anything else V 9 

“ Oh, yes ! he asked me if I was to be at Mary Gaharty’s wedding next week, 
and — and — if— it -was a very foolish question, uncle — ” 

“ Well, dear, what was it?” 

“ Why, only — if— I ’d like to be at my own wedding ?” 

“ Well, and what did ye say ?” 

“ I said — nothing, sir.” 

“ Did he not ask ye anything else ?” 

“ Only if I loved my cousin Brian better than him.” 

“ And what did you reply V 9 

“ Oh,” said Dora, smiling, “ I said I loved Brian ten times better ; and he go* 
quite angry.” 

“ Indeed ! and is it true, Dora, that you love Brian the best V 9 

The girl spread her hands over her face, and even her throat coloured deeply, 
as she murmured — “ No.” 

“Dora,” said Father Mike, “it is very unlikely that you will ever see Philip 
Waddy again; but if you should — ” and his small grey eye, kindled by some 
hidden fire, as he spoke, looked dazzlingly bright, as it sparkled from under his 
dark brows, — “ if you should see him, as you value my last blessing, as you 
value my last curse , shun him, fly from him, look not on him ; the thunder of 
God will pursue, and overtake him, for he is — ” 

“ Remember /” exclaimed a voice, both loud and deep. 

The priest started from his seat ; with one arm folded the terrified girl to his 
bosom, and, with the other, seized the knife that lay upon the table before him. 
Within the apartment, all was still as the grave, except the large dog, who sprang 
to the half-closed shutter, but neither growled nor barked. The priest placed 
Dora on the chair from which he had risen, advanced to the window with a firm 
step, carefully bolted it, and then returned to where his niece, the victim of many 
contending feelings, retained a perfect consciousness of all that passed, but was 
nearly deprived of reason by extreme terror. 

She was, at length, roused by her uncle’s affectionate kindness, and retired 
to her chamber, where a passionate burst of tears relieved her. Young, inex- 
perienced, and perfectly ignorant of the world’s ways, Dora Hay might have 
been truly called the child of nature ; she had lost her mother at the moment 
she entered into existence, and her uncle adopted the friendless infant (her 
father had died some months before), and poured on it the affections of a heart 
that yearned for an object on whom it could bestow especial love. Dora cer- 
tainly, deserved all he could give, for never was child more devotedly attached 
to parent than she was to her uncle ; when he was at home, she followed his 
footsteps, listened to his words, and treasured up his instruction with the 
greatest eagerness and attention; and, when absent, she thought only of what 
she could do to promote his happiness on his return. He was, indeed, her sole 
teacher, and, as he had received the advantages of a more polished education 
26 


FATHER MIKE. 


202 

than falls to the lot of the priesthood generally, having resided at Paris during 
the old regime , his niece had the full benefit of all his advantages; — although, 
it must be confessed, he was not very competent to give lessons in the usual 
female acquirements. He instructed her in French ; nature directed her how 
to sing, and that most sweetly, the wild airs of her native land ; every Irish girl 
dances intuitively ; and Martin taught her all the legends, and interested her in 
all the superstitions, of the country. Thus, the young maiden might have been 
pronounced accomplished, by more fastidious judges than Father Mike’s flock 
Still, it must be confessed, Dora had great faults ; next to her uncle’s opinion, 
she thought her own better than any other; and, like most girls, was vain 
of her beauty. The farmer’s daughters she deemed too ignorant to be her 
companions ; and the young ladies in the immediate neighbourhood, to say 
the truth, were somewhat (I am sorry for it, but it is true, nevertheless) 
haughty, so that Dora had no friend of her own sex ; but she had what, per- 
haps, she thought better — two lovers — her distant cousin, Brian, and Raking 
Phil Waddy. Brian was a steady, well-principled youth, of a slight and rather 
genteel appearance — gentle withal, except when influenced by the destructive 
spirit that has been one of the sorest curses on the land ; then he was rash 
and unguarded ; he had served his apprenticeship to a humble surveyor, near 
the priest’s, and was about to commence business for himself. Any young man 
might have loved Dora for her own sake ; but, as she was considered “ a for- 
tune,” she would, no doubt, be sought by many. “Raking Phil Waddy” was 
the third son of a half gentleman — a noxious species, almost peculiar to Ireland ; 
these half gentry are whole idle, and, on the strength of their relationship to 
some rich family, or on the prospect of, at some future period, being rich 
themselves, they exist without any visible means of support, except what they 
“ genteelly” beg : not that they are ill dressed, or ill fed, far from it ; they go 
from house to house, relying upon the hospitality of the owners, and always 
manage to claim relationship with the opulent, who, “ for the sake of the 
family,” will not suffer them to wear a shabby appearance. The females of this 
species make excellent toadies, and the males, chorus-laughs ; they draw corks, 
tell lies, smuggle occasionally, thrash bailiffs, seduce innocent girls, and end their 
lives generally (for the system cannot always last) either in New South Wales, 
or in a jail. Phil’s father as yet , had done neither; he dwelt some eight 
miles from Father Mike’s, with his wife, who had, at one time, possessed both 
money and beauty, but was now passee , in a tumble-down house by the way 
side, where the nettle and the thistle strove for mastery, fit emblems of the 
bitterness and neglect that existed in the uncomfortable dwelling. Mr. and 
Mrs. Waddy agreed but on one subject, namely, that, as they were well con- 
nected, it was quite impossible to put their sons (fortunately, there were no 
daughters) to any business, and that, as they were nice-looking lads, they might 
visit from one house to another, until they obtained commissions either in the 
navy or in the army. They were received by a good many respectable families, 
but there was a cloud, a something, inexpressible, yet felt, that hung over 


FATHER MIKE. 


203 

their characters, more particularly that of Philip; although he seemed a 
rattling, lively fellow, gifted with much talent and foremost with the jest, A 
relative wished him to study the law, and placed him with a very eminent soli- 
citor in Dublin ; he returned, soon after, to his father’s house — no one knew 
why ; but the shadow had deepened over him. In person he was not so stout 
as he was muscular; his hair was light, his forehead well proportioned, his lip 
smiling, his eye, in unguarded moments, like a cat’s — fierce and prowling. 
Dora’s fortune attracted his attention ; as to love, he knew it not ; the word flew 
often from his lip, but it sprung not from his heart ; he had read of a new phi- 
losophy, too, and because he was quick-sighted enough to discern the errors of 
Catholicism, he grasped at the belief that there was no religion that ought to 
interfere between his passions and their gratification. The spring budded, the 
summer glowed, the autumn yielded her fruit, and the winter — the seasons’ night 
— afforded leisure for reflection ; yet Philip heeded neither their beauty nor their 
usefulness, for he had said in his heart — “ There is no God !” He was too cun- 
ning to give utterance to these thoughts, and made even Father Mike believe that 
he would soon settle down into a steady man ; he visited frequently at his house, 
as he said, to benefit by his instruction. The priest, however, perceived Dora’s 
kindly feelings towards him, and was not inclined to encourage them : Brian, he 
knew, was much more likely to make her lastingly happy, from the correctness 
and uniformity of his conduct. 

On the morning of the day we have just recorded, Father Mike was pacing 
leisurely along the high road leading to Ross, when his kinsman, Brian, met him, 
with the salutation : 

“ I was just stepping down to ye, sir, to speak a word that ’s very heavy at 
my heart. You know that, ever since she was a child, you’ve said, I might 
wear her if I could win her, when she grew up ; but there ’s no chance of it as 
long as that rattling fellow, Phil, with his coaxing words, and his learning, and 
his fine clothes, is at her side ; and I just wanted to ask yer reverence if I might 
take upon me to tell him to keep his distance, and then I should have some 
chance.” 

“ Who are you speaking of, Brian ?” 

“ Oh, ye know very well ; who but my — — I wish ye ’d marry us out of 
hand, and let her be, indeed, my dear little Dora. Sure she could lead me with 
a halter o’ snow.” 

“ There are two words to that ; or, indeed, I may say, but one, and that ’s 
her’s, for mine you have, and my heart along with it. As to Philip, he is a wild, 
rattling boy, and a strange, but he would not do an unhandsome turn for a king’s 
ransom ; only, to be sure, girls do fancy odd chaps sometimes, and I ’ll just tell 
him my mind.” 

“ For the love of God, leave me to do that, sir,” said Brian, earnestly ; “ don’t 
meddle nor make with him ; neither half nor whole lawyers are good for much, 
and I ’ll speak to him myself.” 

“ Well done, Brian, mv boy I” replied Father Mike, laughing. “ So you think 


204 


FATHER MIKE. 


yourself more fit to deal with a bit of a lawyer — you, who are only two-and- 
twenty — than an old, sober fellow, who has seen summers threescore-and-two 
pass over his grey head. Ay, the old story, youth and inexperience versus age 
and wisdom !” The priest laughed again, and Brian, with a serious aspect, laid 
his hand on the bridle-rein, and said : — 

“ Sir there ’s more about that fellow than you believe. As I ’m a living soul, 
he meddles and makes with more than concerns him.” 

“ There again, now ! — ye think yerself sharper than me, just because ye ’re a 
little jealous of Philip. Ah ! when I was young, before I was priested, I was 
like you ; but now — there ’s Philip, I declare ! — don’t look so like a thunder-storm, 
Brian.” 

“ I will see you to-night, sir, at eight, if you will be at home,” replied the 
young man, hastily; “good-bye.” He was going to cut into a path which 
crossed some pasture-land, when Father Mike, in an authoritative tone, 
ordered him to stop, and not to run as if “ ould Nick was at his heels.” 
Accordingly, Brian met Phil with ill-concealed dislike: while Philip smiled 
with gracious sweetness, inquired kindly after Dora, and, with an uncon- 
strained and even careless manner, gave the “ farewell kindly,” and passed on. 

“ That fellow ’s a match for the * devil and Lord Castlereagh,’ ” muttered 
Brian ; “ but for all that I ’ll be a match for him , clever as he is. I ’m just think- 
ing, yer reverence,” he commenced, after a short pause, “ that that chap ’s never 
without his fowling-piece lately ; sure the sporting season ’s over.” 

“ I ’ll tell ye what, Brian, I ’ll not listen to anything you have to say in your 
present humour; come over this evening, and we’ll both talk it out. There, 
don’t torment me now with your nonsense ; go your ways, and let me be at 
peace, though you can’t be so yourself, or I ’ll tell Dora what a discontented 
temper you possess.” So saying, the priest rode on, and, after the lapse of a few 
moments, Brian proceeded homewards. 

The evening advanced very slowly, in the lover’s opinion; and when he 
left his office and arrived at Carrick, on his way to father Mike’s, he found it 
was only five o’clock. Martin whom he had met, told him that Miss Dora 
was up the village, and he stationed himself in the window of the public-house, 
thinking she would pass that way, and that he could walk home with her. At 
last a neighbour induced him to take one, only one, glass of whiskey, “to 
keep up his heart ;” and then, another prevailed on him to take part of a 
tumbler of “ real Cork,” that wouldn’t hurt a new-born baby, and was as mild 
as new milk; and after that poor Brian needed no further pressing. “Let 
the devil in, and he’ll keep the castle;” and so it was. Glass succeeded glass, 
and at last, when Brian was more than half tipsy, Philip Waddy entered. He 
appeared in high spirits, and drew near the place where Brian and his friends 
were sitting. Brian at first resolved to hold his peace, and keep his thoughts 
to himself, but some remarks that Waddy made annoyed him, and, with the 
restless feeling of drunkenness, he seemed anxious to engage in a quarrel 


FATHER MIKE. 


205 

Philip on the contrary, appeared wishful to avoid it; and their companions, Irish- 
like, always anxious for “ a row,” thought him by far too peaceable. 

“Come my boys,” said Waddy, “I’ll give ye something to drink upon; here 
goes ! Oh ! I bar water, it shall be the pure whiskey ; what, Brian ! — you must 
drink it — fill, fill !” 

“ I won’t,” replied Brian, “ I have just taken enough, and there is nothing, 
as Father Mike says, so much to be thought of in a young man as — 
sobriety.” 

A loud laugh followed this speech, and Philip continued : — 

“ Never mind— up, boys, that won’t flinch from a glass, or the health of a 
pretty girl. Now, with three-times-three, as they used to say in our Dublin club 
— long life, health, and beauty for ever to Dora O’Hay !” 

In an instant Brian sprang from his seat, his cheek flushing, while he 
hastily inquired, what right Phil Waddy had to name Dora O’Hay after that 
fashion ? 

“ Now, Brian, my boy, keep cool ; I suppose I ’ve a right to name a girl I love, 
and one who I ’ve positive proof doesn’t hate me, when and where I please ; so 
take it asy.” 

“Ye lie!” said Brian, fiercely; “ye’ve no proof that she loves ye— ye’re a 
false liar !” 

Phil was not brave, but he made a show of courage, advanced towards Brian 
with his fists clenched, and then backed, observing, “ If ye weren’t her cousin, 
by the powers I ’d tear ye limb from limb !” 

“I’ll tell ye what, Phil Waddy, ye think yerself a gentleman; gentleman, 
indeed ! the sweepings o’ the gentry ! — and ye think people are afraid of ye ; 
but ye ’re mistaken ; and I ’ll tell ye what ye are — and these honest men to the 
fore ! — ye ’re no better than a well-dressed beggar ; and when ye hear the dinner- 
bell ring at the grand houses, in ye go, and then sit at the foot o’ the table, and 
eat and drink what ye ’d scorn to work for. But it ’s not the worst ; I could say 
that of you, Phil Waddy, that would place ye as high as the gallows-top, if ye 
were as grand as Colclough, and make ye a thing that the crow and the raven 
wrnuld turn from, for sure natur would tell them that even yer corpse was 
poisoned with the badness o’ yer shrivelled heart ! — only mind the ould vault in 
Dane’s Castle, and who ye met there, and what ye said last Monday was a 
week ! But never heed turning pale, I ’d scorn to be an informer ; only, as to 
Dora O’Hay I warn ye — lave her ; the vulture and the wood-quest ’ud be bad 
companions.” 

So saying,- Brian strode out of the public-house, and Waddy made no 
attempt to follow. If Brian’s threat had moved him, he concealed it effec- 
tually from his half-drunken companions, although some of them afterwards 
pretended to remember, when the occurrences of that evening were referred 
to, that Waddy’s eyes glared fearfully, and that his lips quivered. Again they 
drank of the liquid fire, and none of the party were able to call to mind at 
what hour, exactly, Waddy departed ; long, certainly, he did not remain. The 


206 


FATHER MIKE. 


snow was falling thickly around him, but it had not obliterated the foot- 
marks of one who wended a somewhat unsteady pace towards the priest’s 
dwelling on the hill. Near the village there were many prints on the whitened 
surface ; but, as the lights twinkled more faintly in the cottage windows, there 
was but one track distinguishable by the light of a moon somewhat obscured 
by white but opaque clouds. Waddy kept on the trail like a bloodhound; 
his gun was slung across his shoulder, and in his right hand he carried a stout 
stick : the shadow of a huge black thorn-tree crossed his path ; he stopped, 
sprang amid its branches, and bore down a thick and knotted bough ; hastily 
he tore off the slighter twigs, and flinging his former staff over the hedge, 
firmly grasped the one he had just gathered. The next shadow he perceived 
was moving onwards, and his speed increased — as he thought to himself — 
“ I was right.; I knew there was some one in the under-vault ; and, from its 
size, there could have been but one !” — and the murmur of a low, but fiend-like 
laugh mingled with the whistling wind : and then he thought, “ Fool, fool, fool, 
not to keep his own counsel !” Brian heard not the footstep — it fell lightly ; his 
thoughts were with Dora ; they were seated, in fancy, at the priest’s cheerful 
fire, and he almost imagined he could hear the soft music of her evening song, 
at the very moment when the murderous club was raised for his destruction ; 
hard, hard it fell, and the heart was aroused from its trance, and the body was 
grovelling in the snow ; harder, and yet more hard ; and then the crackling 
sound of the crushed skull-bones, and the warm oozing and outpouring of the 
red blood, on the fair white robe that covered the earth ! Then, as the murderer, 
like a second Cain, stood over the prostrate dead, came the 'hasty trampling of 
a horse, and Father Mike issued from a grove of tall fir-treks that joined the 
road, and scowled on the black deed — the first within man’s memory that had 
ever been perpetrated there. In an instant, before Waddy could move hand or 
foot, the priest sprang off his horse, and grappled with him : the moon shone 
brightly forth, as if to show the unequal struggle, for the aged man was over- 
powered, and his throat was pressed, for a time, almost to suffocation : the fiend, 
however, relaxed his hold, and spoke : 

“ You are there, and you see w T hat I have done. Why didn’t ye pass on, or 
what devil brought ye to yer own death ? No — hear me out ; stir hand or foot, 
and this ends ye !” And he drew a pistol from his bosom. “ Ah, ah ! I’m not 
priest-ridden, and think as little of one sort of earth as of another. Only look 
ye, Father Mike, in Counsellor Finlon’s desk (and a superstitious old dog he 
was), were the papers that, if shown, would have hung you out and out, many ’s 
the day ago; you know for what — for in yer young days ye were bitter enough 
against government. Well, it ’s good to have more pocket pistols than one ; so 
I took them, and a few others that might stand me at a pinch, and would never 
be missed now, as the matter’s as good as forgotten ; and so ye see, holy father, 
you tell, and hang me ; and I tell, and hang you. It ’ud be easier to settle ye 
here, but I don’t care to do that ; so if you ’ll let me alone, I ’ll let you alone : 
there, jog off ; but mark — there are those in the next baronv that, if finger is 


FATHER MIKE. 


207 

raised against me, don’t care a traneen for priests, bishops, cardinals, or pope. 
Never mind— no nostrum of yours can make that feel again !”— and he pushed 
his foot against the stiffening body of poor Brian, over which Father Mike had 
stooped — “ so much for your immortality !” 

The murderer did not utter another word, but turned into the little wood that 
skirted the road. 

Father Mike deliberately mounted his horse, and paced slowly homewards; 
the horrid events that pressed upon his brain almost deprived him of reason. 
Brian dead— Waddy, the murderer — the struggle— the papers. He writhed 
under the powerful coil of the serpent he had fostered and befriended. In this 
state of mental wretchedness, uncertain how to act, he arrived at his house. 

Let us leave this fearful incident of our tale for a while, to relate a few of 
the circumstances that led to the dreadful occurrence which, for the first 
time within the memory of man, had laid an indelible stain on the parish of 
Bannow. 

The fact was, before the Irish reign of terror of 1798 , Father Mike, like 
many of the Romish clergy, had entered into a clandestine correspondence with 
foreign powers ; this had been suspected, and after the rebellion, he was 
arraigned on the charge of high treason. Proof, however, was wanting ; and it 
was believed that Counsellor Finlon, who conducted the prosecution, had been 
induced to suppress the principal evidence against him; this however, was 
merely suspicion. Father Mike was acquitted, returned to his parish much 
wiser than he had left it, and afterwards showed his good sense by never 
meddling in politics ; and, as party feeling died away, the charge was almost 
forgotten. 

It has been seen that poor Brian was justified in thinking so ill of Waddy; 
but he was most imprudent in applying his information as he did. The horror 
which the lower and middling class of Irish have of delivering any one up to the 
violated laws of their country, is a fearful source of evil ; indeed, in the most 
civilized parts of the Island, this feeling still exists. .An old ruin, called Dane’s 
Castle, was on the estate of a gentleman in the neighbourhood, and, as it was 
crumbling fast to decay, he wished to have it pulled down. Brian, who, in his 
capacity of surveyor — architect, or, more properly speaking, a country union of 
both, had been engaged to build and repair some offices about his house — was 
directed to examine the stones of the castle, and inform him if they could be 
usefully employed in the new building. The relic of olden times was far from 
any dwelling, and even the few cattle that used to shelter beneath its walls had 
lately deserted it. Some scattered brushwood grew around it, and the strong 
ivy might be said to repay its former support by keeping the mouldering frag- 
ments together. Evening was closing when Brian went to inspect it ; he 
thought it almost too late to observe the ruin distinctly, but then it was a 
“ good step to go and come ;” and after examining the outer stones, he 
descended into a little cell, or cave, which, tradition said, had been the abode 
of a pious monk many centuries ago; the grey twilight stole tremblingly through 


208 


FATHER MIKE. 


the various apertures in the decayed wall and stony ceiling, and the surveyor 
was on the point of clambering up, when Waddy’s voice struck upon his ear; 
he could not be said to suspect anything, yet he stood motionless, and 
heard him in earnest conversation with a stranger, one not of the province of 
Leinster. 

“They can’t have got scent of me,” said Philip, “It’s morally impossible ; 
however, it’ll be a lesson to the rest not to be lettin’ their land to new 
tenants.” 

“ I think,” replied the other, “ we could have warned them off, only 
ye advised the burnin’; and to be sure there was nothin’ else for it, when 
once the robbery was finished, for they all knew us. How were ye ever back 
in time?” 

“ Oh, the mare ’s worth a million ! — she ’s prime. ’T isn’t the first time, nor 
won’t be the last, I made my neighbour’s horse do the turn : and the best of 
it is, when Sam Corish found her warm in the mornin’, he sets off to the wise 
man for a charm ; and there ’s a horse-shoe nailed to the door ; for he swears the 
faries are after Black Bess !” 

“ Well, Phil, ye’re strong and hearty. I own the job was almost too much 
for me : I can’t bear finishing the innocent women and childer.” 

“ Oh, I thought ye ’d better sense than that ! Sure it puts ’em out of pain. 
But what I wanted to say most to you is, how we ’re to manage when this 
place comes down — (there ’ud be fine pickings in the house that owns it, but 
I ’ll have no hand in anything so near home) ; you know this is a very con- 
venient place to stow any little thing the Roving Jenny puts in, till we send it 
off. Bridge’s chamber ’s too exposed ; this is far from the sea, to be sure, yet 
it is lonely ; — however, we ’ll talk more about it ; there ’s nothing hid away 
now, and that sop of a fellow, Brian, ’ll be looking here for the sake of 
the stones, to-morrow, I suppose. However, you step to the Public, and 
hear the news — they ’re almost tired of talking of the burning in the county 
Waterford.” 

Even when the echo of their footsteps died away, Brian could hardly believe 
the reality of what he had heard, and he resolved to keep it to himself until a fit 
opportunity occurred of mentioning it to his father confessor, and asking his 
advice. His imprudence at the public-house cost him his life, for Philip was 
assured that he knew his secret. 

When father Mike returned to his home, after the dreadful scene he had 
witnessed, he was followed in the distance by the murderer, who, although he 
thought the priest sufficiently in his power, feared that something might induce 
him to deliver him up to justice. The glimmering light from the kitchen- 
window attracted his attention, and he carefully watched the movements 
within, until the moment when Father Mike was about to speak of him, in the 
presence of Dora. He remained outside the house, like a prowling wolf, after 
the shutter had been fastened, and at length saw a single ray stream from 
Dora’s window; the demoniac thought flashed across his brain that, if he 




FATHER MIKE. 


209 


could speak to the innocent and affectionate girl, he might win her to his 
purpose, and thus have a double hold on the priest. The window almost 
rested on the top of a sloping roof, and was easy of access ; he crept up the 
thatch, and through the uncurtained lattice saw Dora sitting on the side of her 
small, low bed, her head resting on her hand, her whole appearance betoken- 
ing much and bitter sorrow. He tapped at the window, and she looked 
towards it, but with a bewildered ken, as if she hardly comprehended what it 
meant. 

“ Dora, dear Dora, hush ! Sure ye know me, love? I just want to speak one 
word to you; there, don’t be frightened — why should ye?— just open the window 
for one little minute.” 

Dora moved towards it, her whole frame violently agitated ; she tried to speak, 
but the words died on her lip, and she motioned him to be gone. 

“ No, love, no ; not till ye have heard me. Sure I ’m yer sweetheart, and will 
be yer husband in spite of them all ; and now every one ’s asleep, there ’s no harm 
in your speaking to one you love.” 

She drew still nearer the window, but utterance was denied her, and again 
she moved her hand for him to depart. 

“Undo the fastening, love,” he repeated; but still she motioned him 
away. “ Then,” said he, “ as I must speak to you, you force me to this !” 
and, urged by every bad and unmanly passion, he, by one strong effort, burst 
open the casement. Dora gave a faint scream, and fell on the floor ; he was 
in the act of entering, when little Martin appeared at the chamber-door, and 
presented to his breast a double-barrelled gun that was nearly as long as the 
room. 

“I ax yer pardon, Mister Phil; but I can’t help it; it comes quite nataral- 
like to purtect a woman ; and I ’ll just take lave to say that ye choose a 
mighty quare time for visiting, particular whin there ’s no one to resave ye — for 
Miss there looks as dead as a door-nail. Hulloo — hulloo — hulloo — oo : — o ! all o’ 
ye !” and he sung out a tally-ho. “ Here ’s housebreaking, and fire, and Miss 
Dory dead ! — If ye stir hand or fut, Misther Phil (I ’m heart-sorry for ye, but it ’s 
thrue as that I ’m little Martin) — if ye stir hand or fut, ye ’re gone — gone, hot- 
trot to the devil !” 

At this moment Father Mike rushed into the apartment ; enraged at seeing 
his niece to all appearance dead on the floor, and Waddy half in at the 
window, forgetful of all circumstances connected with himself, he articulated, 
in a voice rendered hoarse by violent feeling — “ Seize — seize him, Martin ! — 
he is a murderer /” By this time Dick, and another “ working-boy,” who lived 
in the house, had entered; — the wretched man made an effort to escape, by 
drawing back from the window. Martin, however, resolved he should not get 
off so easily, and discharged his gun ; the fire took effect, and Philip rolled off 
the building over which he had climbed, but a few minutes before, in perfect 
strength and fiend-like vigour. 

Martin looked out of the window after him, and quietly said, “ He ’s only a 
27 


210 


FATHER MIKE. 


taste hurt — not kilt outright; we’ll step down and pick him up, and then 
yer reverence ’ll tell us what to do wid him ; there, Miss Dora ’s a-coming to 
herself, the darlint ! God presarves his own !” 

On examination, Philip was discovered to have been badly wounded in the 
shoulder ; he would not suffer any dressing to be applied, but sat, the picture of 
sullen crime and obstinacy, in the kitchen, which filled by degrees with the 
neighbouring peasantry. He neither spoke nor moved; when the priest addressed 
him he smiled — such a smile ! — not like those of other days. 

It may be here necessary to state, that when Father Mike left his niece in her 
little chamber, he went to the ladder-stair which led to Martin’s dormitory, and 
called him to arise. In a moment Martin was with his master ; and the priest 
hastily told him that murder had been committed in the neighbourhood — that as 
he was coming home he had witnessed it ; at the same time carefully concealing 
that Waddy was the perpetrator of so foul a deed; he directed him to arouse 
the farming boys, and bring the body to the house. Martin obeyed, wisely 
thinking that he ought to take the gun ; and while in the act of loading it, Dora’s 
faint scream broke upon his ear. 

When the bustle had subsided a little, the two young men, accompanied by 
three or four of the peasants, went to seek for the body of poor Brian. Martin 
alone remained — his long gun resting on his knees, and his eye steadily fixed on 
Philip. 

The remains of the murdered youth were brought in. As they passed 
Waddy, many believed they bled afresh; he started from his seat, and one 
thrill of human feeling seemed to rush through his frame. He gazed for an 
instant, and then covered his face with his hands. They laid the corpse on 
the long table, where not two hours before, the priest’s supper had rested ; 
and deep groans, and bitter sobs, echoed through the humble room. The 
murderer sat apart, his wound still bleeding, while all looked upon him as a 
being accursed. 

The early morning saw the culprit in the hands of justice. When he was led 
forth, manacled, to the car that was to convey him to Wexford jail, he turned to 
Father Mike, and, showing his wrists, said, in a deep under-tone, “ This is the 
liberty you promised !” 

“ I — I — ■” replied the priest, “ I promised you no liberty. I confess, I deserved 
what followed. You intimidated me by your threat, at the very moment when 
self ought to have been a secondary consideration ; but God is wise — he would 
not suffer the murderer to escape ; and I am punished for my weakness. But 
you must have been worse than devil, at such a moment, to think of harming 
that spotless child ; repent, there is yet time — repent ; although there can be no 
deeper hell than your own heart !” 

He answered not ; the car and escort pursued their way amid the execrations 
of the peasantry. 

The wake took place as usual, and great was the assemblage; but the 
untimely death of the young man shed a gloom over it, which neither “ tay. 


FATHER MIKE. 


211 

whiskey, snuff, nor tobacco,” could dissipate. The best “ keeners” were col- 
lected, but their hired cries were not heeded. Many sincere tears were shed 
for poor Brian, and his good qualities were amply praised. “ Och, sorra o’ my 
heart !” sobbed out Molly, “ to think the beautiful corpse he ’d ha’ made, if he ’d 
been let alone !” 

“ Is that yer trouble ?” replied Martin, who was engaged in making a “ caul- 
dron” of hot whiskey-punch; “why then, Molly— only ye haven’t much 
mother-wit to yer own share— I think it ’s a different thing to that ye ought 
to say.” 

“ What ’ud you say, wise man Martin ?” inquired one of the company. 

“ Why, thin, I ’d jist say, that it ’s not much matter how a corpse looks, so 
what was once inside was beautiful and in the thrue way.” 

Towards morning, when the principal number of people had departed, and 
only six or eight aged women remained in the apartment with the body, Dora 
Hay opened the chamber-door to ascertain that all was quiet; -a-nd, throwing 
the coverlet over her as a mantle, descended to the “wake-room.” Her mind 
had been shaken, yet at that moment her purpose was nerved for temporary 
exertion, and she clearly comprehended what she was about to undertake. 
When she opened the door, her ghastly and unexpected appearance terrified the 
women and they crowded together. She advanced to the table on which the 
corpse lay, fully dressed, according to the custom of the country. The mangled 
head was covered, and she did not attempt to disturb the cloth, but took one of 
the hands in hers. She recoiled from the first touch, and the icy chill of death 
appeared to have been communicated to her. For some moments she stood 
motionless as chiseled marble : again she took the hand, and, slowly bending on 
her knees, just touched it with her lips; she continued kneeling for about five 
minutes, with head elevated, and lips moving as if in prayer; but no sound 
escaped them. Slowly she crossed herself; and, pressing the little crucifix, that 
was suspended from her neck, to her heart, with the same quiet step returned to 
her apartment. 

The funeral was not only numerously, but respectably, attended, for rich and 
poor lamented Brian’s untimely end: and I have before said, that Father Mike 
was universally esteemed. 

There was an old miserable-looking hag that resided over the Scar (an inlet 
of the sea that separates Bannow from an adjoining parish), and near the ruins 
of the Seven Castles of Clonmines. This wretched object, had she lived a 
hundred years ago, would most certainly have been burned as a witch; as it 
was, she was regarded both with dislike and terror by old and young. Squalid 
in her appearance, her rags fluttering in every passing blast, she sat, during the 
funeral, on one of the high tombstones that “ mark the lowly dead.” As the 
crowd passed from the churchyard, she singled out Martin, and beckoned him to 
her. Martin was not at all flattered by the distinction ; but too superstitious not 
to attend her command, immediately obeyed. 

“ God save ye kindly, Mrs. Madge ! — I ’m glad to see ye.” 


212 


FATHER MIKE. 


“ That ’s a lie, Martin Finchley, and ye know it is ; there ’s no one glad to see 
me — no one cares if the earth opened and swallowed ould Madge ! But that ’s 
not what I wanted to spake about. Man alive ! — if indeed ye be a man — don’t 
stand cronauning there, but come close — closer to me !” And she stretched 
forth her bare, bony arm, and grasping little Martin’s shoulder with her long, 
claw-like fingers, drew him towards her, as a cat pulls out a mouse to execution. 
“ Ye know the Seven Castles o’ Clonmines ; well, the one next the wather, where 
there are such broad, flat stones, ye ’ll see one bigger nor the rest ; there, under 
that you will find what consarns Father Mike ’bove the world, if ye’ll take the 
throuble to find it. It ’s for the sake of the dark-eyed girl, that ’s often done me 
a kind turn, though she ’s not long for this world, for her yarn is spun. There, 
go yer ways ; only, hark ye, mind whin ye go to the place, or, may-be, ye ’ll 
meet with more company than ye ’d bargain for.” 

Martin loved his master too well not to risk even his life for him if it were 
necessary ; but he felt delighted when he was fairly out of Mag’s sight. Per- 
fectly unconscious of what could “ consarn Father Mike ’bove the world,” he 
concealed himself among the ruins of Clonmines, until the evening closed ; 
he then removed the large fiat stone she had described, and dug like a rabbit 
for some time, amongst the rubbish, before he discovered anything. At last 
he found a small bundle of papers, tied with red tape, and then a small 
parcel. He was proceeding in his search, when he thought he heard a rustling 
on the pebbly shore, as if some one was approaching ; and, securing what he 
had found, he hastily got behind a projecting buttress of one of the castles. His 
conjectures were right, for a man immediately turned the corner of a little bay, 
and proceeded direct to the flat stone which Martin had not time to replace. 
The Irish dumb show is very expressive, and the gestures of the disappointed 
seeker w r ere strongly indicative of rage and disappointment. The man at last 
went away; and Martin, who, to use his own expression, had “lain snug,” pro- 
ceeded home with his prize. Arrived at Father Mike’s, he waited quietly in the 
chimney-corner until the priest was disengaged ; and then went into the little 
parlour, and, locking the door, crept round the room, spying and peeping about, 
as if the wall had ears. The priest, accustomed to Martin’s eccentricities, did 
not pay much attention to his movements ; for, truth to say, he was discussing his 
tumbler of whiskey-punch — it was not as palatable as usual, for Dora had not 
compounded it. Martin at last approached the great chair, and gently pulled 
the sleeve of his coat ; Father Mike turned round, and awaited an explanation. 
Martin presented the packet. 

Father Mike put on his spectacles, untied the fastening, and, to his no small 
astonishment, found various memoranda concerning circumstances long past, 
which at once convinced him that he had actually in his possession the papers 
to which the villain Waddy had alluded. The parcel contained also a few small 
articles of plate, and some letters that mysteriously alluded to dark and bloody 
deeds which either had been, or were to be, perpetrated. Martin detailed, in his 
own way, the manner in which he obtained them ; and Father Mike had no 


FATHER MIKE. 


213 

doubt that they were to have been made use of to his injury by some of Waddy’s 
associates. 

Every effort was made to induce Waddy to disclose his crimes, but in vain. 
He remained cool and collected ; civil, but sarcastic, to those who approached 
him ; and appeared to summon all his faculties for the purpose of banishing every 
relic of human feeling from his breast. When his mother visited his cell, he 
received her kindly, but betrayed no emotion, although she wept upon his shoulder 
until the fountain of her tears seemed dried up. 

As the assizes drew near, rumour became more busy than ever, and crimes 
were imputed to the wretched man, of which it is more than probable he had 
never been guilty. The day of trial came, and Father Mike was summoned to 
give evidence against the murderer, who had refused all spiritual aid, and would 
converse neither with priest nor minister. 

The crowd assembled outside the court-house of the county town, was greater 
than had ever been collected on any former occasion. In Ireland, the feelings 
of the lower order of people are usually enlisted in favour of a prisoner, for 
they appear to think that all who come under the arm of the law are victims. 
But it was not so in Waddy's case; he had murdered the kinsman of a priest, 
and had attempted to violate the sanctity of a priest’s house, which is considered 
as holy as the altar ; the bitterest execrations were, therefore, uttered against 
him. 

Father Mike was making his way through the motley throng, when a low, 
murmuring growl ran along the people, and various exclamations of — “ Oh, the 
murdering reprobate !” — “ Oh, to think of it !” — “ Oh, it is impossible he could 
be guilty of it!” — struck upon the priest’s ear; and he soon learnt that Waddy 
had anticipated the sentence of the law, and strangled himself in prison. 

* ####### 

The spring had passed, and the summer — the sunny summer — was nearly at 
its height, when the priest one evening entered his little parlour, and called his 
niece to him. She was engaged at her wheel, the only employment to w T hich 
she attended ; it appeared to give her occupation without the effort of thinking, 
and she turned it mechanically from morning until night. 

“Dora,” said the kind old man, as she entered, “ Dora, will you take a walk 
to the village, or up the hill ? — you have not been out since Sunday.” 

“ Yes, uncle.” 

“Dora, stay one moment; do not break my heart ; it is old now, and has 
knowrn much sorrow — much sorrow have I known in this w T orld, Dora; but, 
child, the bitterest of all my afflictions would be to see you — you, whom my 
heart so joyed in — pine away, and leave me. And, oh!” continued the weeping 
old man, as he fell upon his knees, “oh ! with more than enough — with plenty, 
plenty to my portion, of this world’s good — oh, Heavenly Father! hast thou 
willed that I, an old, grey, time-worn man, should outlive all that are dear to me, 
and that strangers should close my eyes?” 

Dora also knelt, calmly and deliberately, by her uncle, and looked steadily in 


FATHER MIKE. 


214 

his face. He was much agitated ; and there was something about her coun 
tenance that betokened returning feeling and interest. 

“ Sure, Dora,” he proceeded, after a pause, “ sure you can unburthen you? 
mind to me ! Even your duties to God have all been neglected — you have not 
been to the confessional since — ” 

“ Stop, stop ! I well remember since when,” she interrupted, hastily — “ too 
well ! I have been wrong, I know ; but all in this world has appeared to me so 
changing, so wicked, so uncertain ! May-be, dear uncle, my head has not been 
right — everything seems changed.” 

“ Am I changed, Dory 

“ Oh, no, no, no !” — and tears, that sweet relief to the overcharged bosom, 
gushed from her eyes, as she threw her arms, with the affection of former days, 
round her uncle’s neck. “ I have not cried this long, long time; and now I am 
better — my head is not so heavy — and I will tell you now, dear uncle, all that 
has passed in my mind. Brian — poor Brian ! — I did not think of him as he 
thought of me ; and the black wickedness of that bad man, whose smile wiled 
away my thoughts ! — but when I saw Brian’s corpse, I knelt and made a vow 
that I would go into a convent, and lead a holy life, for his sake whom I did not 
value as I ought. Uncle dear, I am not what I was, and every day that delays 
me from a holy life, adds to the sin of a broken oath.” 

The poor priest was bewildered — almost distracted : to yield up, even to the 
church, the fair girl whom he had expected to be the blessing of his old age, 
was a trial for which he was unprepared, and which he had not strength to 
meet. It was some time before he spoke, and his words were then scarcely 
articulate. 

“ Dear Dora, I am punished ! I gave you the love that belonged to the 
Almighty ; and now you leave me in age and helplessness.” 

The next morning, Father Mike mounted his faithful steed, and, at an early 
hour, was on the high road to his bishop’s house, having resolved to tell him the 
whole story, and to act according to his advice. The bishop felt much for his 
old friend, and observed, that Dora could easily be absolved from her oath, by 
the church. But her uncle knew that she would persevere, with a sort of insanity 
in her determination so to devote herself. Nevertheless, the bishop thought he 
would converse with her, and see if any plan could be arranged that might 
render Father Mike and his niece at peace in their once happy home. He 
accompanied the priest to his dwelling, and felt convinced, after a brief conver- 
sation with Dora, that her mind had become weak and wandering; however, 
he succeeded in persuading her that she could perform her vow, and still remain 
with her uncle, as “ it was not likely he could live long.” 

My dear child,” said the bishop, “ it would be almost killing him if you were 
to leave him now ; but put on the dress of the holy Ursulines — the order of which 
you intend to become, I hope, a worthy member — perform its penances and 
prayers, and keep apart from the world in your uncle’s house : you will make 




FATHER MIKE. 215 

him happy ; and be a blessing to that good man, whose hairs would go down 
with sorrow to the grave, if you deserted him in his old age.” 

Dora has now been some years truly a “ blessing” to her uncle and the neigh- 
bouring poor ; but it is difficult to determine whether or not her intellects are 
gaining strength, as she holds no converse with any one except Father 
Mike. She passes from cottage to cottage, the ministering angel of peace to the 
afflicted : neither joy, nor, it would seem, sorrow, have marked her pale, marble- 
like countenance; and little Martin, who wears like a Turkey carpet, often 
observes, as she passes, with slow but noiseless step, along the old kitchen — 

“ To think of that banshee-looking cratur being the dancing, singing fairy — 
light of eye — light of foot — light of heart — until that horrid night of blood and 
sin that brought desolation even to the house of Father Mike!” 





H 





OLD FRANK. 



of friends 
(and they 


S long as I can remember, Frank was called — “Old 
Frank.” He was a little, crabbed-looking man, bent 
nearly double ; had a healthy colouring on his cheek, 
and a few, very few, grey hairs straying over his bald 
and shrivelled forehead ; with a halt in his walk ; and 
was always either singing or coughing; somewhat 
“ cranky” in his temper, and, in his capacity of coach- 
man (which situation he had filled for a period of forty- 
two years in our family), exercised despotic sway over 
horses, dogs, and grooms. He was singularly faithful, 
and strongly attached to his master and mistress, his 
horses, and myself ; indeed, as to the two last, it was 
a matter of doubt which he loved best; however 
“ snappish” he might have been to others, he was to 
me, in my childish days, one of the kindest and firmest 
; no matter how I tormented him — no matter what pranks I played 
were not a few), “ Miss Maria” was always right, and everybody else 

( 216 ) 


OLD FRANK. 


21 ? 

was wrong. Having lived so long in the family, he was hardly looked upon as 
a servant, and neither master nor mistress disputed his dictum ; indeed, J do not 
know why they should, for, wherever his authority extended, matters were well 
managed. The coats of his carriage horses shone like French satin, and the 
carriage, an old, lumbering thing of the last century, could not have existed at 
all under the care of any other coachman. Frank, the carriage, and horses, had 
grown old together; they were all of a piece, and cut a remarkable appearance, 
whenever they walked (for that was their most rapid pace) out in the bright, 
sunshiny summer. But it was not alone in this, his principal situation, that Frank 
was entitled to, and treated with, respect. All the perfect, and all the embryo, 
sportsmen of the neighbourhood came to consult him on every matter connected 
with dogs and horses ; he was famed, all over the county, for educating pointers 
on the most approved principles, and was permitted to have three or four con- 
stantly in training for the neighbouring gentry, who always remunerated him 
handsomely for his trouble. He had been an excellent sportsman in his youth, 
and took much pride in boasting that, except his head, all the bones in his body 
had been broken ; indeed, even his head exhibited a sufficient quantity of bumps 
to puzzle a phrenologist ; the old man still loved sporting, and it was owing to 
this circumstance that Frank and I were such great friends. 

I certainly was “ a country child and to escape from study, and stroll with 
Frank, Frank’s dogs, and Frank’s daughter, “my kind and gentle nurse,” was 
one of the greatest of my simple enjoyments. I can hardly tell why, but Ban- 
now, in my remembrance, always seems like fairy-land — its fields so green — its 
trees so beautiful — its inhabitants so different from any I have elsewhere met ! 

The aged man used to make it a constant practice to take out a steady old 
pointer, with a young, untaught, roving, but well-grown puppy; and I believe 
Joss (the old one) was as much interested in the business of educating the young 
dog, as Frank himself. Be that as it may, we used all to wander among the 
green lanes and fields, and, when I was tired; nurse would seat me on an old 
grey stone, or. rustic stile, and Frank would lean on his gun, and tell me some 
of the fairy tales, or legends, with which his memory was so well stored. He 
had a most confirmed belief in banshees, cluricawns, fairies, and mermaids ; and 
if Mary, who was very superior to the general order of servants, ever presumed' 
to doubt the truth of one of her father’s stories, he reproved her in no gentle 
terms ; and no wonder, — he had a mark in his hand, which was actually given 
by an arrow, shot at him by a fairy queen, one evening, when he was returning 
home after a quiet carouse at Mr. Talbot’s. He could nevei be prevailed upon 
to root up large mushrooms (fairy tables), or to pull bulrushes, (fairy horses), lest 
he might offend the good people. 

His most favourite walk was across some young plantations, admirable covers 
for game, to a small hill, thickly wooded at either side, where there was a singu- 
larly fine oak, one of whose branches jutted suddenly from the trunk, and formed 
a rustic seat, which in childish sportiveness, I used to call my throne. From 
thence the prospect was very beautiful: the long white chimneys of my old home 
28 


OLD FRANK. 


218 

sprang, as it were, from amid the trees, that, from this particular point of view, 
appeared to fringe the oceans brink ; while the many-coloured foliage of the 
lofty poplar, dark cedar, feathery birch, or magnificent elm, gave richness and 
variety to the landscape. 

But in our own summer-house — a comparatively rude structure, yet which, in 
those days, was, to my mind, the most perfect example of elegance and good 
taste that was ever erected — how I did love to sit, during the long evenings — 
nurse’s arm around me, to prevent the possibility of my irregular and restless 
movements terminating in an upset, and listen with delight to Frank’s fairies, 
about whom the good old man so dearly loved to talk, only interrupting his nar- 
rative, now and then, by a necessary word of caution to his dogs. Whenever J 
urged him to tell me a story, he used to shake his head, and say, “ Och ! Miss, 
honey, ye ’ll, may-be, think of ould Frank and his fairies, when ye ’ll be far from 
your native land, and my poor smashed bones at rest. But my blessing be about 
ye,” he w T ould add, patriotically, “ never deny your country .” 

My favourite story was, “The Stout and Strong of Heart;” and I believe it 
was Frank’s favourite also; for many a time and oft has he repeated it to me, 
and always have I listened with attention, pleasing the old man, while I was 
myself delighted. I will give it to my readers, although I fear it will lose much, 
from the absence of my ancient friend, who with so much earnestness and native 
humour, related it. 

“ There was plenty of mirth, and of everything else, in the little cabin of 
Jerry Mahony, for his daughter Ellen had just become a bride, and the merry 
party were beguiling the time while the dinner was in preparation. The blind 
piper was sitting on the hearth-stone, making beautiful music, and now and 
again taking a sup of potheen, to the long, life of the wedded pair. Jerry him- 
self was listening to all the compliments and good wishes of the neighbours ; his 
wife, Biddy, busily placing all her own and the borrowed delf upon the table, and 
bustling her maid Peggy with a continual ‘ Make haste, hurru ! — ’t is only once 
in a long life;’ while the bride and bridegroom, James and Ellen Deasy, sat in 
a corner, talking over their future arrangements, and planning ways and means 
to make themselves happy and comfortable ; and, to be sure, the mother of the 
girl got everything in order. And Ellen was lovely and beautiful enough for 
a queen, let alone a poor man’s wife. But, although she was made much of, by 
rich and poor, no one thought more of her than Kit Murtough, the blind piper ; 
and good right had he so to do ; for she had the pity for him, the poor, sightless 
creature : — and it was he who made the beautiful music that night ; so beautiful 
was it, that the priest himself could stand it no longer, but capered like a China- 
man. Well, the next morning, Biddy Mahony went to the foot of the ladder 
that led to her daughter’s room — 

“ ‘ Ellen, honey,’ says she, ‘ come down, I have some nice tay for ye both.’ 
She waited, and there w ? as no answer; so she went up a few steps, ‘James, 
agra ! won’t you waken for me?’ Still no answer: well, she went into the 
room, and stopped, and said, ‘ Why then won’t either of you spake to your own 


OLD FRANK. 


219 

mother, that gave birth to one, and a wife to the other? Jemmy, Nelly, dears! 

get up and look at the morning that’s so smiling and happy.’ Still not a 
word : so she went and pulled the wisp of straw out of the window, and let in 
the light. She then looked on the bed, patted her child on the cheek, and felt 
that she was a cold corpse. Her bitter shrieks soon woke the husband ; and 
the neighbours came running in, in crowds; and black grief was in that cabin, 
where, the night before, there had been so much joy. Many suspected that 
James Deasy had a hand in his wife’s death, and there were some who told him 
so. But sobs, from the very depth of his heart, were James’s only answers. 
The evening came, and the young bride was laid out for the wake. All was 
got in readiness for the ‘ herring,’ which, according to custom, was to be on the 
third day. Now, nobody took the death of poor Ellen more to heart than did 
Kit the piper, who wandered about the neighbourhood of her dwelling, playing 
only dismal tunes, until the night before the funeral, when he was sitting, 
between lights, under the corn-rick that stood in the sheltered corner of Jerry 
Mahony’s field, while the mournful music made the place more melancholy. 
Suddenly he felt a rapid gush of wind pass by him, and then all was still ; he 
paused for a while, and again struck up the same tune, the tune that poor Ellen 
so dearly loved ; then the wind came stronger by him, and again he paused ; 
once more he began the air, and the wind beat furiously against him. He now 
crossed himself, and called on the blessed Virgin, when he heard the voice of the 
dead bride speak to him, and say, ‘ Kit Murtough, go to my husband, and tell 
him not to weep for me, for I am a living woman, but the fairies carried me 
away. Bid him come here at nightfall, and bring a pail of new milk from the 
cow ; but tell him be careful not to spill a drop of it, or he ’ll lose me for ever, 
but to be stout and strong of heart ; and when he hears the blast rush past him, 
let him throw it upon me, so that it may drench me all over, but, if he misses me, 
he ’ll never see me more.’ A joyful man was Kit that minute, and off he posted, 
and told it, word for word, to the husband, who, to be sure, put but little faith in 
it, yet the love to the wife made him try. So, to make all sure, he milked the 
cow himself, without spilling a drop, and off* he went to the corn-rick, very much 
troubled in his mind, with the hope of recovering his bride, the doubts as to the 
piper’s story, and the fear that he should * miss drenching her and then lose her 
for ever.’ But James was a bold man, and feared nothing else. So he waited 
patiently until the first blast of wind passed him. He took up the pail, but his 
heart misgave him, and he laid it down again. Once more the blast came, and 
more strongly, but still James Deasy was only half a man. The third time it 
came furiously upon him ; then James was ready, and threw every drop upon 
the blast, when, all at once, he saw his wife before him, as plainly as when she 
stood beside the priest ; and he clasped his arms about her, while a loud whirl- 
ing tempest — full of the good people — came all around them. But she was safe 
from harm, and they returned smiling to her father’s cottage. 

“ No one but a mother can tell Biddy Mahony’s joy to see her child come back 
to her again. And the evening of that day saw happiness returned to Jerry’s 


OLD FRANK. 


220 

cottage, where the piper had his old seat, in the chimney-corner, sung many 
a merry song, and drank a double portion of whiskey to the health of the bride- 
groom and the bride. 

“ But James Deasy, when he came in, went straight to the coffin, and, in the 
place of the corpse, he saw a great log of wood, with the shroud upon it. This 
he quickly put upon the fire, when they heard a loud screech, and the log went 
up the chimney with a noise like a thunder-storm, that almost shook the roof off 
the old cabin. The neighbours came running in to know what was the matter ; 
and there they saw James Deasy, and Ellen his wife, sitting in the corner, as if 
nothing had happened ; she looking as beautiful, and he as happy, as when Father 
Peter blessed them both, a few days before. 

“ Some months had now passed away, and Ellen was about to become a 
mother, when she called her husband to her bed-side, and said, * James, dear, 
happy have we been, and happy will we still be if you do my bidding ; wffiich 
is, when my little baby is born, put three crosses on its forehead, and three on 
mine, and don’t leave me for a minute, however they may try to wile you away, 
for the fairies will be after the both of us.’ Well, James never left her bed-side, 
but watched her night and day, for fear the fairies should be waiting to take off 
both the wife and the child ; which, when it came, was a glorious boy. But, all 
at once, James heard a scream outside the door, and a small voice calling 4 Ellen 
Deasy ;’ he looked round, and saw the latch raised, and the door opening gently, 
then ran towards it, and pushed it to violently, when, all in a minute, he heard a 
loud laugh, as if from many persons, and, when he looked on his wife’s bed, he 
saw that both mother and child were dead. James remembered the crosses, and 
remembered that his wife had warned him to let nothing tempt him from her 
bed-side. But ’twas too late, they were both gone, and James Deasy was 
indeed a wretched man. 

“ They kept poor Ellen and her little one for a long time above the ground, 
and then they buried them both in the churchyard. But James could not rid 
himself of the idea that the bodies were not those of his wife and child, so he 
would not let the priest say mass or anything over them ; a thing which brought 
much shame and scandal upon him. But he had his own reasons for it. 

44 Now, it happened, one morning, that James Deasy was hoeing his little 
garden, and thinking, as he did every day, of his poor Ellen, that he had lost 
nearly a twelvemonth, when his hoe struck against a sod as green as ever was 
spring leaf, although his spade had been into it many a time, and it had been 
long covered with black clay. All of a sudden he heard music under it — beau- 
tiful and sweet music, such as he had never heard before. He remembered his 
poor wife’s warning to 4 be stout and strong of heart,’ so he raised up the sod, 
and looked down. There he saw, at a depth that seemed many miles under- 
ground, a number of little people dancing most merrily; they were all dressed ir. 
green leaves, and had fine forms and faces; for, to his great wonder, he could 
distinguish them plainly, although they were so far off. Pie thought that one of 
the little people resembled his dead wife ; and he knew it must be her, when he 


OLD FRANK. 


221 

heard her say, ‘ to the corn-rick at midnight,’ while the rest of the fairies repeated 
her words, ‘to the corn-rick at midnight;’ and then the music ceased, and the 
ground appeared the same as it had always been ; for James could not discover 
the green sod he had just raised. The more he thought upon the words, ‘ to the 
corn-rick at midnight,’ the more he was convinced they had some meaning, and 
that they were addressed to him. So he waited impatiently till the night came, 
and went off to the appointed place. 

“ Now, the green island was well known over all the country as the pet of the 
fairies. There he waited till he heard the sound of the merry pipes, and saw a 
long train coming along the path. He stood quite quiet, as if he was minding 
nothing at all but the road-stones he pretended to be breaking, until the whole of 
the crowd had passed him ; when up from the ground starts James, seizes the 
last woman of the group, tears off the cloak from the shoulders, signs three 
crosses on the brow, snatches the child, and does the same to it, when, lo and 
behold ! his own wife, Ellen Deasy, on her knees before him, and his own beau- 
tiful little baby in her arms ! The sign of the cross had driven all the fairies 
away, and, safe and sound, James, and Ellen, and their little one, returned 
to their cottage, and never more was the life of either disturbed by the good 
people. 

“ They are still living in Dumraghodooly, and James is.ever and always ready 
to tell his story over a glass of whiskey punch ; but no inducement has yet pre- 
vailed on Ellen to give any account of her adventures in fairy-land.” 

“ Oh, Miss, don’t laugh,” Old Frank would invariably add— “ it ’s as true as 
I ’rn a sinner, and it ’s bad to disbelieve the fairies. Sure I was an unbeliever 
once myself, and this was my punishment — one of their arrows right through 
the flat o’ my hand ; I shall carry the mark to my grave. Come, Miss, it ’s time 
to go home ; — bad luck to the dog ! Joss, where ’s Rover ? — Rover ! Oh, that 
young dog wants' as much attindance as a Mullenavat pig !” 

“ How is that, Frank?” 

« Why, Miss, the Mullenavat people are Munster, ye know, and quite inferior 
to the Wexfordians, and depind on the pig to pay the rint, and, on that account, 
trate him with all the respect possible — why not? — and so they pick out the big 
pratees for the pig, and ate the little ones themselves ; and they give the pig the 
clane straw, and sleep themselves in the dirty ; and they give the pig the candle 
to go to bed wid, and go to bed themselves in the dark.” 

“ And is that true, Frank ?” 

“ As gospel, Miss ; upon my word it is. Here, Rover ! — the only way to 
steady that dog will be to hang him. Rover — Rover !” 

Frank delighted in telling stories of the rebellion, but he left it to others to 
recount what true and faithful service he had rendered his master and mistress 
in that perilous time; and they were nothing loath to do him ample justice. I 
have often heard how he buried the best old wine in the asparagus beds, to save 
it from falling into the hands of the rebels; and how he concealed his favourite 
horses in the hen and turkey-houses ; and how, at the risk of his life, he carried y 


222 


OLD FRANK. 


forged older to General Roche, who commanded the rebel forces in the town 
of Wexford ; which order purported to come from another rebel chief, and de- 
manded the instant freedom of his master, whose life was thus preserved. 

It was in the summer of 1798 , that my grandfather, who had been, for a few 
days, in Dublin, on business of importance, embarked with his constant attendant, 
Frank, on board a small Wexford trading vessel. Intelligence had reached them 
of the disturbed state of the country ; and, as land travelling was unsafe, the 
“ boat” was engaged to convey them direct to the Bay of Bannow. 

As they passed Dalkey Isle, and coasted along the beautiful shores of Wick- 
low, glowing in the full richness of summer, the sea-breeze tempering the fervid 
heat with its invigorating freshness, my grandfather thought he had never seen 
the country look so tranquil or so happy ; the lowing of cattle, the bleating of 
sheep, the cooing of the wood-pigeon, even the subdued warblings of the forest 
birds, were heard on board their light bark ; but when the day passed, and the 
night darkened, unusual fires sparkled on the hills ; and, along the shore, lights 
would blaze for a moment, and then suddenly disappear. The anxiety of both 
master and servant to arrive at home was intense, and they were much pleased 
to perceive, through the grey mist of the succeeding morning, the spire of Wex- 
ford Church. As the day advanced, Mr. distinctly saw green flags float- 

ing from the masts of. the several vessels in the harbour. 

“We must sport one too, sir,” said Rawson, the captain of the brig; “if we 
do not, they will board us.” He unfurled his flag immediately, after which, 
Frank went off deck into the cabin, and slyly took out his master’s pistols 
from his portmanteau ; he then (as he subsequently stated), poured a little water 
into the pans of a fowling-piece, a blunderbuss, and other fire-arms, that he had 
perceived lying under some coiled rope and canvass sacks. The fact was, he 
had ascertained, by overhearing some conversation between the captain and 
one of his crew, that Rawson was a United Irishman, and one in no way to be 
trusted. He then crept on deck, and placed himself beside his master’s elbow. 
My grandfather kept his eye steadily fixed on Rawson’-s movements ; but, to say 
the truth, if he had been tacking for the bottom of the sea, he could hardly have 
discovered it, being utterly ignorant of all naval tactics. 

The channel into the harbour of Wexford is very narrow ; nor was it until 

the prow of the vessel was passing between the two embankments, Mr. 

observed that Rawson, instead of steering for Carnsore Point, was making direct 
for the town. He instantly sprang at the captain, who was at the helm, and 
seized him by the throat ; while Frank, nothing loath, presented a pistol to his 
head, swore vehemently that, if he did not tack about, he would throw him over- 
board. Rawson, who was a man of great bodily strength, drew a pistol from 
his bosom ; it missed fire ; but, at the moment when my grandfather had over- 
powered his antagonist, he received a blow on the head from Frank ; he was 
almost stunned, staggered a few paces forward, and fell. At that instant, two 
or three musket balls whizzed past, and Frank whispered — “ I humbly ax yer 
honour’s pardon, but it was the only way I had left, to make yer honour get out 


OLD FRANK. 


223 

of the waj jf three blackguards in that boat, who took prime aim, and would 
have had ye down as clane as a partridge, but for my taste of a knock ; the 
game ’s up now, but that bit of a blow wouldn’t hurt a pointer, sir.” 

In another instant they were boarded by the rebels, and Mr. was soon 

bound hand and foot. He would, most likely, have been piked on the spot, but 
that the insurgents were, at this period, anxious, if possible, to obtain the sanction 
and assistance of some of the leading gentlemen of the county. They, there- 
fore, secured him, to prevent the possibility of escape, and Frank was suffered 
to depart. The poor man arrived at Bannow when it was near midnight, and 
found my mother and grandmother marking the minutes by their tears. The 
whole country was in a state of open insurrection ; and, although they had 
hitherto been treated with respect, through the kind interference of the good 
priest and Captain Andy, yet the uncertain fate of my grandfather, and the con- 
tinued stories of death and destruction they had heard, kept them in perpetual 
agitation. Frank’s account was not likely to soothe their misery, and they asked 
each other what was to be done, without receiving consolation from any plan 
that was suggested. Captain Andy was with his rebel regiment at the mountain 
of Forth. The priest had gone, it was supposed, to Ross. What plan could be 
adopted? — “Frank, can you not devise any mode?” — Frank coughed. — “Can 
nothing be done ?” — Frank replied to this question by asking another : “ Can ye 
tell me, madam, if they have taken Grey Bess for the devil’s service yet?” — 
“ She was in the stable this morning, with two or three of the old horses.” — • 
“ Hem ! I ’m glad of that, I ’ll jist step out — I wonder they passed her ; she ’s as 
fine a slug of a mare as there ’s in the whole county.” 

The ladies thought Frank’s attention to his quadrupeds ill-timed, but he went 
his way ; and, first concealing the carriage-horses in the fowl-houses, mounted 
Grey Bess, whose strong, well-made limbs merited the encomium he had passed 
on her, and, without imparting his intention even to his fellow-servants, set off 
at a brisk trot to the mountain of Forth. Arrived at the encampment, he soon 
found out his friend Andy, and, in a few moments, they were in close conversa- 
tion at a little distance from the mass of the people, who were either sleeping, 
drinking, or singing, in scattered groups over the mountain, canopied by the clear, 
moonlit sky. “We must get him off, Frank; General Roche is in command — 
yet I don’t know how ! Can you write ?” — “ Is it me ?” replied Frank ; “ not I 
— can you ?” “ No ; an order from General Keough would do it, but he ’s for 

making a bonfire of the town.” 

“ The baste !” exclaimed Frank, “ would there be any sin in jist signing his 
name to a little taste of an order to General Roche, to let hin go free on parti- 
cular business, to be returned when called for ? If we had him safe in Bannow, 
’t would be asy enough to hide him away in an ould cave, or castle, or cask, or 
ship him off, like a sack of pratees, to Wales. Where there’s a will there’s a 
way; but he ’s clane gone if he remains in Wexford. Is Father Mike here?” 
Andy bent his thumb back to intimate that he was in the camp. “ I thought so 
— God be wid ould times ! he ’ll never forget my mistress’s attintion to him, and 


224 


OLD FRANK. 


she an Englishwoman, let alone my master’s. If ye see a man an’ his bit of a 
wife go prist in the morning on Grey Bess, bathershin — God he wid ye !” and 
Frank went off to seek the priest. He was easily found, and soon understood 
what Frank wanted. 

“ My simple order would be of no use, Frank, for they think me faithless 
enough, because I cannot spill blood — blood of the innocent as well as the guilty. 
General Keough’s would do it the kind hearted-man paused : “ every impri- 
soned Protestant will, I know, suffer before to-morrow night.” 

“ My poor master, sir, and mistress ! — I ’ll tell ye what, if yer reverence will 
jist give me the scrapeen of an order, who ’ll know ye iver wrote it? — and sure 
it’s I that ’ud write it in the crack of a whip, if I knew how. Oh, sir, think of 
all the good they did the poor Catholics in the hard winter !” 

Father Mike hesitated no longer, drew from his pocket a little inkhorn, and 
wrote the order on the top of Frank’s hat, the moon shining brightly on them at 
the time. 

Away went Frank and Grey Bess, into Wexford, and the day had dawned by 
the time he arrived at the Court-house. He unhesitatingly presented his order, 
and my grandfather was much delighted to find himself at liberty. 

“ I wonder the General wrote,” said the man who let him out, “ for he ’ll be in 
Wexford himself in an hour !” 

This intelligence alarmed Frank much, and he hurried his master to a dwelling, 
the fidelity of whose inmates he could depend on ; it belonged to his uncle Kit’s 
third daughter, who was married to Mickey Hayes, the grocer, at that time 
Commissary-General to the rebel forces quartered in Wexford. There Frank 
equipped his master in a good frieze suit, a long coat, straw hat — mounted a 
bunch of laurel at one side, and a green feather at the other and presented to 
him a sturdy pike ; he then arrayed his own little person in “ his uncle Kit’s 
daughter’s” red petticoat and hooded cloak. 

“ And now,” said he, “ yer honour will remember that yer name ’s Pat Ken- 
nesey, and that ye ’re going to the blessed priest’s house, and that I ’m yer wife 
— that ’ll ride on Grey Bess behind ye.” 

They arrived safely at Bannow ; and my grandfather often said — when the 
troublesome times were passed, and he jested at the remembrance of by-gone 
dangers — that, three* times within forty-eight hours, Frank saved his life — when 
he damped the powder — knocked him down — and became his wife. 

Honest Frank’s services did not go unrewarded; he was suffered to indulge 
all his little peculiarities, without let or hinderance, and to be as cross as he 
pleased, without the possibility of a reprimand. Although an ample provision 
was made for his latter days, he mourned most bitterly our coming over to what 
he always designated “ the could-hearted English country and his affection 
was so strong, that he w r ould have left his children, to follow us, had he not been 
(to use his own expression) “ past travelling, at eighty-five.” 

Good old man! I well remember him when the moment of parting arrived, 
and we were to take our departure for “ the great metropolis of nations.” He 


OLD FRANK. 


90 r. 


stood foremost of a troop of weeping domestics ; his hat held reverentially in 
his withered hand, while the sleet of a January morning mingled with his grey 
hairs ; tears rolled abundantly down his wrinkled cheeks ; we were seated, yet 
still he held the coach-door open — “ God bless you all ! — shut the door, Frank,” 
said my dear grandfather, almost as much affected as his faithful servant. 
Frank still held it, cast a farewell look upon us, and then, turning to a man who 
was close to him, exclaimed, “ You do it, James ; I can’t close the door that shuts 

me out for ever from ” the horses went on, and I saw my kind story-teller 

no more. 

I have said that Frank loved his horses ; he also loved the old family carriage. 
And when we left the country, my grandfather presented it to him, thinking, of 
course, he would sell it. No such thing. Frank went to live with his daughter, 
my old nurse, at the village of Duncormuck ; and there he erected a spacious 
shed, under cover of which he deposited his favourite chariot ; the poor old 
man’s delight was to wheel it in and out. Until within a few days of his death, 
he attended to it with the most scrupulous exactness, and invariably got into a 
passion whenever the propriety of selling it was hinted at. 

“ Who knows,” he would say, “ but they may come home of a suddent ? — and 
what a comfort it would be to them, to find the ould carriage, and ould Frank, 
ready for sarvice !” Poor old Frank ! 











MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


NEVER saw any beauty in her — that’s the truth” — 
exclaimed one of a group of females, who, lounging 
around a cottage door, were watching the progress 
of a young woman toiling slowly up a steep hill, and 
leading by the hand a very slight child. The cottage 
was in the valley — and the traveller must have passed 
the group — for, like the generality of Irish dwellings, 
it was on the road-side. 

“ I had the greatest mind in the world to ask her 
how she had the impudence to wear a bright goold 
ring on her wedding finger, as if she was an honest 
woman !” said another. 

“ And she asking with such mock modesty for a 
drink of water ! I wonder how she relishes water 
after the fine wines she got used to,” suggested a 
third. 

“ It was for all the world like a story written in a book,” observed the first 

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227 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 

speaker; “how she left the Uphill farm (as good as seven years, come Easter,) 
and no one ever knew exactly who she left it with — only guessing that it must 
be one of the sporting squireens , that thronged the country about that time. 
Since the ould gentleman at the Hall died, and the place was pulled down, we 
have none of the kind going.” 

“ Small loss,” was the reply ; “ they were only good at divarsion — for them 
selves I mean ; there was no use in them at all at all, for others.” 

“Did you see how white her hands were?” remarked another. “Well, I 
expect there will be murder of some sort done — for her father will never own 
her — and it ’s little she thinks there ’s a new mother to meet her. I hadn’t the 
heart to tell her her own was dead ! — bad as she is.” 

“ Bad as who is ?” exclaimed a clear, but aged voice. “ Who is bad, girls, 
agra ? It ’s a comfort to hear of bad people, so it is ; it makes one say — ‘ Well, 
the saints be praised, I ’m not as bad as that , any how.’ ” 

“ Oh, Daddy Denny, is it yourself that ’s in it ? Oh, thin, that ’s luck !” they 
exclaimed together. “ Think of that, now — and we never to see you coming, 
daddy, honey !” 

“ How could you see me coming,” replied the stout beggarman, “ when your 
backs were to me ?” 

“ And that ’s true, Denny dear ! — but look, daddy, what do you see going up 
the hill ?” 

“ Ay, wisha ! — how do I know ? — sure I ’m sand blind, any way.” 

“ Don’t bother us — your eye ’s as clear as a killing’s — who do you think 
it is?” 

“ A woman, dear.” 

“ Sure we know that — what else ?” 

“ A child, my darling.” 

“ What news you tell us — . but who ’s the woman, and who ’s the child ?” 

“ Ah, then, is it a witch ye think me ? How can I tell ?” 

« Do you know Mister Phill Ryan, of the Uphill farm ?” 

“ Do I know my right hand ?” 

“ Did you know his wife ?” 

“ The Lord be good to her ! — Is it know her ? — the holy saints make her bed 
in heaven ! — I never say a prayer for myself without bringing her into it. Oh, 
she was the darling, with the open hand : there ’s few like her now by the road- 
side.” 

« Well, daddy, and you knew her daughter.” 

“I did, I did,” replied the old man, with visible emotion; “I did — the poor 
darling — I did, God help me ! she’s heavier on my heart, this many a day, than 
all my sins — I often drame of her. Oh, Mary Ryan, dear, I wish you were as 
near all hearts as you are to mine !” 

“ She may be near enough to you, then, any time you like, for the future,” 
replied one of the women, “ for there she goes.” 


228 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


“ Where, where ?” inquired the beggar eagerly : “ Oh, as you hope for mercy, 
tell me where !” 

“ She ’s out of sight now,” answered the first speaker ; “ but it was her you 
saw going up the hill.” 

“ And did none of you tell her that her mother was dead ?” inquired Denny. 

“ Why, then, what ’s come to you, daddy ?” said the eldest : “ my father would 
go mad if he thought we spoke to her.” 

“ He ’d do no such thing — he ’d go with her himself sooner than she should 
go alone. Ah, girls ! girls ! one woman should never lean heavy on anothei . 
we should lave judgment to God, my darlings, and mind mercy, for we all want 
it, girls.” The old man grasped his stick more firmly in his bony hand, and 
wiping the dew from his brow, which fatigue and emotion had brought there, 
he proceeded rapidly up the hill. 

“ Stop, daddy, stop, and have something to eat : — sure, the meal father pro- 
mised you is ready — and you said you ’d bring us word of Ellen Mullins’s wed- 
ding, and what she ’d on, and all.” 

“ The next time, the next time,” answered the old man, without turning back. 

And there ’s a drop of something in the black bottle,” shouted another. 

“Well!” exclaimed Stacey, the eldest of the sisters, “that bates all: I never 
knew daddy refuse the bit and the sup before ! Mary Ryan always had the 
way of bewitching the men, though, to be sure, now she ’s both old and ugly.” 

“ She ’s just your age,” said Rose, the youngest girl. 

“ How do you know that V 9 was the query. 

“Father said so.” 

“ Father knows nothing about it,” retorted the offended elder ; but I must 
leave them to settle a question the most difficult to determine among either 
women or men, and proceed with my story. It is already known that Mary 
Ryan had left her father’s house — but no one knew with whom — that she 
was returning with a child of Her own, and ignorant of the fact that her mother 
was dead, and her father again married, and that there existed, at all events, 
one human being who felt interested in her fate — although he was only old 
Dennis, commonly called “Daddy Denny” — as notorious a beggarman as ever 
importuned upon the Irish highway. Daddy Denny had as many acquaintances 
in Waterford as Reginald’s Tower, and in Wexford, as the Bridge; but he 
only visited towns occasionally, loving better the by-roads, gentlemen’s kitchens, 
and comfortable farm-houses of Wexford and Wicklow — feeling a particular 
interest in shipwrecks, and the waifs and strays appertaining thereunto ; having 
an active mind and an active body, as far as walking was concerned ; being a 
devout beadsman, a good story-teller, and well read in the domestic history of 
every house in what he called his three native counties* — Waterford, Wexford, 
and Wicklow. His bold spirit, and reputation for sanctity, gave him an 
ascendency over the poorer class, and his quaint good-humour caused him to 
be more than tolerated by the farmers and gentry. 

“It’s lead that’s in my brogues this blessed day!” he said aloud, as he 


229 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 

mended his pace. “ Holy Mary speed me! Ah, yah, yah! I never think I’m 
growing old, barring when I have something good to do in a hurry — the poor 
girleen! — she little knows what I know;” and on he trudged, heartily and 
hastily, muttering every now and then, according to his custom, about what he 
thought, and praying for what he desired. Having reached the top of the hill 
which had been already climbed by Mary Ryan — for it was one of those small 
perpendicular ascents that are so common in the county of Wicklow — Daddy 
Denny saw, at a glance (notwithstanding his being “ sand blind”), what was 
passing at the Uphill farm, which lay very little to his left ; indeed, if he had 
not seen, his attention would have been arrested by the voice of a woman in 
loud anger. A group of young alder trees overshadowed the dwelling, which 
partook more of the nature of a farm than a cabin : against one of these, which 
had been planted by her father at her birth, Mary Ryan — unable to support 
herself, was leaning, in hopeless anguish — uttering no word, shedding no tear — 
but listening, with opened eyes and gasping lips, to the vehement abuse poured 
upon her by her father’s wife. Her child, a pallid, weary-looking little girl, of 
about six years old, was clinging to her dress, and her own younger sister — 
a woman in appearance, yet cowed into subjection by her step-mother — was 
standing half in, half out of, the door, not knowing how to act. Mrs. Ryan 
was one of a class by no means rare, who imagine that their own virtue is best 
evinced by condemning with the utmost violence, every woman who has 
suffered under the supposition of swerving from the right path. She had 
known Mary in girlhood ; she knew how beloved she had been by the mother 
to whom she had succeeded ; she saw her changed, faded and in despair ; but, 
notwithstanding all this, the harsh tones of her voice mingled with the balmy 
breezes of a May evening : — 

“ Go back from where you came — Father, Moyra ! deed, an it ’s himself that ’s 
in fine health, Lord be praised! — dacent man — and has enough to do to pro- 
vide for dacent, well-behaved children, without having shame, and shame’s 
daughter, to pick the potatoes God sends ; for — oh, you brazen face ! — take yer 
brat to yer mother’s grave, and cry there !” Here Mary’s sister interposed, but 
Daddy Denny could not hear the words. “ If you touch her, or go near her, 
you shant stay here, depend upon that !” exclaimed Mrs. Ryan. “ I ’m yer 
father’s wife, and I ’ll have none like her to curse our house ; — if we ’re poor 
we ’re honest, not like other people.” 

“ And who says she ’s not honest V 9 said the stout beggarman, interposing 
his portly person between Mrs. Ryan and the almost unconscious Mary. — 
“ Who dares to say it ? Fetch yer sister a drink of wather, to bring her to 
herself, Anty, this minute. I ’m ashamed of yez all, so I am ; I never heard 
tell of the like before, in my own three counties ! Setting a case she had been 
deluded — to shame I mean — did you never see a holy picture about a prodigal’s 
return ? Why, Mrs. Ryan, the print of it is hanging against yer own wall, the 
father houlding out his arms, and the calf — red and white, and fat — standing 
ready for killing ; and yet ye see the craythur dying upon these stones, and 


230 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


don't lift her up ! Ah, yah ! Mary, mavourneen, asthore, a machree ! ye ’ve 
supped sorrow sure enough, a lannan ; but I know my own know, a’coushla. 
and I tell you,” he continued, while, kneeling by Mary's side, he supported hei 
on his arm — “ I tell you, and call the Almighty, the blessed Virgin, and all the 
holy saints of heaven, to witness that she who rests on me now, in a dead faint 
— I tell you all — that, though foolish in what she did, she 's freer from sin than 
e’er a one here, barring her own child — don't cry, my pet, your mammy’s only 
in a faint, my bird. Here !”■ — he continued, as the farmer himself, unconscious 
of what was going on, leaped heavily over the ditch — “ here ! look here, sir, if 
you plaze ; and may the Almighty, that stands the innocent's frind, turn yer 
heart to yer own flesh and blood !” 

James Ryan walked to where his daughter was still supported by Dennis — 
his wife hung back, for she did not quite like to encounter the beggarman’s 
eloquence, which was to the full as energetic as her own, when excited. Mary 
Ryan was very like her mother ; and lying pale and speechless — without sense 
or motion — the resemblance to her parent on her death-bed appealed so power- 
fully to his feelings, that he raised her in his arms, calling upon Dennis to ac- 
count for her appearance. 

“ I wonder at you, James I” said the wife ; “ don' t you see it's Mary 
whom you often swore should never break the daylight at your door? I won- 
der at you, Denny, to be taking advantage of the poor man's softness and inno- 
cence ! Get up, James ; don't be demaning yourself to the like of her , before 
your honest wife and children.” 

James Ryan looked bewildered ; but, as he collected his scattered thoughts* 
his horror of his daughter’s sin overpowered every other feeling. 

“ And that 's true,” he said ; “ yet she 's so like her mother — but it 's true* 
for all that. She left us of her own accord ; and the mother that bore her could 
find no place but the grave to hide her sorrow in. She broke the heart of her 
own mother ; and, poor as I am, she was the first that ever brought shame on 
her name.” 

“Come away, come away, James,” whispered her step-mother; — “come awav, 
and don’t be letting yourself down with thinking of her.” 

“ Let me alone, woman !” he exclaimed, rudely shaking off her hand : — “ let 
me alone, and do not turn your tongue on her — mind that. Go in, children ; I 
swore she should never darken my door ; and she never shall !” He rose up* 
and walked steadily towards his cottage ; but, before he had time to enter it, the 
sturdy beggar interposed. 

“ Look here, James Ryan,” he said ; “ I tell you what I told her, who, I trust 
to the Lord, is now in glory — I said to her, when that girl left your house, that 
sorrow would follow her, but not shame; — I tell you, that she has never known 
a happy hour since ; but I tell you, besides, that she 'll be righted yet ; and that, 
though the sunshine of her life be gone, you’ll be proud of her — all of you — 
proud of her, and proud of Mary Ryan’s daughter. I tell you this — Mrs. 
Ryan, ma’am — because I know you ’re of the sort that would give to get agin , 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 23 ] 

and the time will come when you ’ll be glad, may-be, to pick her potatoes, and 
winnow her corn : and I tell it to you, Mister Ryan, because you ’re her father, 
and because the dread of her shame is just now stronger in you than your natu- 
ral love — that ’s why I do it.” 

“ Hear the big beggarman !” exclaimed Mrs. Ryan. 

“ Hearing is all one ever got by being a beggarman from you, any way !” he 
answered, sharply ; “ but it ’s the man of the house I ’m speaking to ; the father 
of her who lies there suffering from another’s sin, and not sinning herself.” 

“You speak like a book, Mister Denny, # but it’s no good to you,” said Mrs. 
Ryan; “ don’t look back at her, James, honey, though, sure enough, I wouldn’t 
be where I am but for her ! If she hadn’t broke her mother’s heart, I ’d never 
have been so happy, as to be your wife.” Whether or not this artful piece of 
feminine flattery succeeded, I cannot tell, but certainly James preceded his wife 
into the house, and she shut the door, pulling the latch-string inside, to prevent 
it being opened. 

“ What ’ll I do with her at all !” soliloquized Denny, while surveying Mary 
Ryan and her daughter — “the foolish ould nagur, to be led that way by his 
young slut of a wife. She may have years of trial still, God help her ! And 
where will she shelter ? Rouse yerself, Mary, my own ould heart’s darlint ! — 
rouse yerself. What ’s that you say ? — that you murdered your mother, jewel ? 
Faix, no, ’twas the will of God, avourneen — nothing passes his holy will — rouse, 
darling, and see if ould Daddy Dinny can’t find you a night’s lodging somewhere. 
Oh, the hearts of some fathers — and sisters too — to see how that young clip of 
a sister deserted her like the rest ! Where will I take her to ? I know,” he 
said, after giving his head one of those earnest scratches which seem mysteri- 
ously to revive the Irish intellect — “ I know ! — ould Jenny Harper, the barony 
Forth woman, whose husband was killed in the mines, has a sore heart still, and 
hat makes a feeling one.” 

And the daddy fussed and talked, and, at last, succeeded in rousing poor 
Mary into a flood of tears, while her child kept entreating her not to cry. Still 
the broken-hearted creature sat before her father’s closed door, moaning — “ If 
he would only forgive me — only forgive me !” The night dews fell, and the 
moon rose ; and, at last, the kind-hearted beggar persuaded her to accompany 
him to a cabin hard by, where she ’d be sure of shelter. Silence not being one 
of his qualities, he muttered and jabbered all the way, like most great talkers, 
expecting no reply ; and so busy was he with his own thoughts and opinions, 
that he did not hear the light foot of Anty Ryan, who flung her arms round her 
sister’s neck, and was sobbing on her bosom. “ Mary ! it ’s your little sister that 
I am, and dare not speak to you before her — your dawshy Anty, agra ! — don’t 
take on too much about our mother ; it was an inward complaint she had for 
ever so long : and sure, before the breath was out of her, she prayed for you 
with all her heart and soul — yes, she forgave you.” 

“ But she thought me guilty ?” inquired the poor creature, breathlesslv. 


232 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


“ She forgave you, sister — I have no more to say ; but here, don’t be cast 
down — here ’s a thrifle I saved — and that saving doesn’t often trouble me — but 
I did save a few shillings, just for something — but I ’d rather give it to you, my 
poor Mary; it’s all I have. Well, if you won’t have it, the child* God help it* 
will ! I ’m your aunt, honey ; and, while you ’re Mary Ryan’s daughter, I ’ll love 
you, my poor innocent baby : — there, God be with you ! Daddy will tell me 
where you ’ll be. I must run back, for I pulled the loose stones from where the 
window ’s to be, to get out.” 

“ Why, then, that ’s right !” exclaimed Denny ; “ and a good husband and 
soon to you, my brave hearty girl ! That ’s the rale sort, mother’s own child — 
success — and cross of Christ about us ! that nothing may cross yer path worse 
than a beam of the May moon.” 

Mary Ryan and her daughter were, within an hour from that time, estab- 
lished, quite to Daddy Denny’s satisfaction, in the cabin of the Widow Harper, 
a miserable dwelling composed of turf and loose stones, and consisting onty 
of one room ; but she had not forgotten the neat habits of her childhood ; 
and, small and poor as it was, the floor was even and well swept ; the chimney 
did not smoke ; and the bed of dried heather was raised from the floor by 
some long boards, and covered by a patch quilt. The old woman showed 
every attention to her guests, boiled them some potatoes for supper, and after- 
wards bathed their feet in the potato water — taking care to throw it out when 
done with, that it might not be converted to any improper use by the fairies, 
who, it is said, have a great fancy for floating boats upon bath-water, and there- 
by sorely bewildering the imaginations of those who sleep, either in a cabin or 
a palace. 

Denny betook himself to a neighbour’s barn, as was his custom ; and, when 
he reappeared in the morning, he found poor Mary Ryan suffering from the 
rapid approach of fever. 

“ I well know the sickness that ’s coming over her,” said the widow ; “ and 
I ’ll tell you what, daddy, all I have to give her is the poor bed and the shelter 
— she ’s welcome to that — and I ’ll take a turn among my husband’s people for 
a couple of weeks ; I ’ll bring her little girl with me, if she ’ll come ; and the 
neighbours won’t let her want a mouthful through the window, quite convaynient. 
I can’t stay within a mile of a fever myself, on account of a promise I made 
my mother — and she on her death-bed — never to do so ; so that ’s all I can say, 
except may the Lord forgive unnatural relations !” The widow strove to pre- 
vail on the child to accompany her, but in vain; the little creature clung to her 
mother, importuning her with questions of when would she go home, which she 
had not the power to answer. 

“ God be with you, Mrs. Harper, ma’am,” exclaimed Denny ; “ you ’ve done 
a Christian turn; and if there’s virtue in prayers, you shall have them, dear — 
may-be I won’t pepper away at them for your sake !” and the widow cheerfully 
gave up her dwelling to the outcast from her own father’s house. 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGH1ER. 


L>33 


“ The neighbours” did watch — as they always do; and the beggarman posi- 
tively insisted upon having “ a drop of wine, and a grain of tea,” from the 
gentry, “ for the sick woman, who had no one to look to her, only God, and the 
poor.” 

This was a common case enough, for, as I have often said, and am never 
tired of repeating, the Irish peasant is rich in the virtue of generosity ; but the 
care and tenderness — the watchfulness of the child over the parent, were sub 
jects of astonishment to all who knew it : — by day or night she never left her 
mother’s presence — caring for her wants, and sitting quietly upon the ground 
in the light of day, or the darkness of night — her large lustrous eyes fixed upon 
the place where her mother lay. Anty Ryan, and Anty Ryan’s sweetheart, 
had contributed largely to Mary’s recovery, by bringing her those morsels of 
luxury which the rich do not value, and which were given to Anty by a kind 
lady for the purpose. The watchful child knew who approached by the step, 
and her thin arm, and eager hand, were immediately thrust through what the 
widow had pompously designated — “ the window and the food placed in it, 
and hallowed by a blessing, was immediately conveyed to her suffering parent 
Mary recovered. Her mysterious absence — the loudly repeated declarations 
of daddy (who either was, or seemed to be, deep in her secrets), that she was 
innocent of shame — the harshness of her father, the benevolence of the widow, 
and the extraordinary conduct of the child, created and kept alive an interest 
in her fate, which operated in her favour. When she was able to creep about 
in the sunshine, and enjoy the light breeze that sports amid the woods and glens 
of all beautiful Wicklow, she was assailed by numerous questions as to “Where 
she had been living 2” “ Who was she with 2” “Was she going back 2” “ Why 
did she leave 2” and so forth. To all these questions she meekly replied, “ I 
cannot tell and though every one feared “ she had been very wicked,” they 
felt for the poor, shadowy, worn-out creature, in whose behalf, natural instinct 
seemed reversed ; for, strangely enough, her little girl had grown into her pro- 
tector; and the mother looked to the child for her small store of comfort. 
Wonders are wonders longer in the country than in the town; but Mary Ryan 
continued to be regarded with sympathy long after astonishment as to her where- 
abouts, and position, had ceased. Although three years had elapsed since her 
reappearance, she still sheltered beneath the Widow Harper’s roof, knitting 
stockings of the finest wool, which were sought after by the visitors to “ the 
Meeting of the Waters,” and the immediate neighbourhood; and her daughter, 
who had none of the mother’s timidity in her composition, would offer them for 
sale. She had become most useful to her mother ; and the good widow, and 
Daddy Denny, were perpetually on the watch to inform her how her zeal and 
activity might be turned to the best account. 

“Darling, dear! gather a handful of them flaggers — the blossoms, I mean, 
bind them with the fairy flax, and be ready with yer courtesy at the Avoca 
Hotel, and offer them to the ladies ; the quality, darling, will be soon astir to 
see God’s works below and above the earth ; and sling a pair of the stockings 
30 


234 


MARY RYAN S DAUGHTER. 


on yer arm : don’t take any notice of me forenint the quality ; it will do you no 
good to be talking with the big beggarman — you’re not begging, but selling, 
avourneen — so you ’re above your poor daddy. Hould up your head in the 
world, my girleen ; and, above all things, don’t take common charity ; if they 
give you a penny, have something to give them for it : — never let any one have 
to say, you was a beggar, avourneen ! mind that.” Or he would watch her 
going forth with a couple of baskets, into either of which she could have 
almost crept herself, her abundant hair hanging over her fawn-like eyes, when 
not tossed by the breeze ; her cloak, more an incumbrance than a protection, 
tucked up by her arms ; and her small bare feet, beautiful in shape and pro- 
portion, rendering her appearance a picture worthy the painter’s skill. “ Ye’re 
going after eggs, now, I ’ll go bail ; and I heard them say at the wooden 
bridge, that Mary Ryan’s daughter’s eggs were always fresh ; and, better than 
that, the farmers would trust you to market their eggs sooner than many a 
grown woman ; and, sure, that is a proud hearing for your mother and then 
the poor mother’s eyes would fill with tears, and she would continue her mono- 
tonous occupation — knit, knit, knit for ever; walking, sitting, standing, ‘‘the 
needles” were never out of her hands. As the girl grew stronger, she would 
cut turf for their fire, and do so with an energy and determination that aston- 
ished every one. 

“Ye ’re for the bog to-day, dear,” the gaberlunzie said ; “ and, by the blessing 
of God, it will not be soft weather ; we had great prayers intirely last Sunday 
aginst wet — the poor man’s foe ; but, in troth, jewel, I don’t like to see you work- 
ing for evermore so cruel hard, and you so young !” 

“ Then come and help me, daddy,” laughed the child. 

“ Ah, darling ! I own to it — I ’d do anything rather than work ; it never 
came natural to me. Every one said I ’d take to it as I grew ould and steady ; 
but, jewel, I suppose I never did grow steady, for though I grow ould I like 
it less than ever. I used to herd sheep on the mountains, and used to lie and 
think how happy the sun, moon, and stars would be, travelling — it was their 
nature, you understand, as well as mine. It does not take much to keep an 
Irishman : the tongue in his head will do it, without his hands ; though I don’t 
travel much now — no, dear, I’ll advise you, and think for you and watch for 
ihe time ; but as to working, it ’s too late in the day for me. Bedad ! the Wick- 
low hills would shout with wonder, if they looked down on Daddy Denny clamp- 
ing turf!” 

Sometimes Mary Ryan’s daughter would encounter her grandfather, and 
then her eye would kindle, and her cheek flush ; and she would spring out of 
his path with the fleetness of a wild roe. It is quite impossible to describe 
the tenderness and love she bore her mother ; she had no self hut in her ; and 
the more feeble Mary Ryan became, the more devoted grew her child. Daddy 
Denny was the only one who knew what Mary’s position really was ; but he 
kept it a profound secret, never hinting but once, to the priest’s housekeeper, 
as he was waiting to see his reverence, “ that poor Mary Ryan was like Hagai 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


235 


and Abraham in the picture, only much worse trated.” Denny had great 
Scripture knowledge, in his own estimation, and was frequently known to argue 
thereon; and the poor people, not understanding what he said, came to the in- 
variable conclusion that, in Denny’s particular case, “ the poverty had spiled a 
fine priest.” 

Days, weeks, months, and years, went hy ; and Mary Ryan’s daughter w^as 
fast merging from the girl into the woman. She had gleaned a little learning 
from a hedge schoolmaster, one of the clever political old fellows, who, in by- 
gone times, taught the “big boys” Law and Latin, Politics and the “ Read-a- 
made-aisy,” in the same breath. He usually got up, every day, such a scene as 
the following : — “ Spell tyrant, James Sullivan. Now, Jimmy, hould up yer head 
like a man, to show ye defy it.” “ T-i — ” “ Och ! murder, no. What spells 

Ty, besides T-i V 9 “ T-n, sir.” “ Och ! my, ye ’re only fit for a slave, Jimmy ; 
I ’m sorry for ye, you poor craythur. Try your tongue at it, little Neddy.” — 
“ T-y-r-a-n-t !” spells out the young rogue, his bare foot placed firmly on the 
damp floor, and his eyes sparkling with triumph. 

“ There ’s my haro ! — take the top of the class. Oh ! not the Latin class, my 
boy ; you ’re not up to that, Neddy, yet — but above Jimmy Sullivan. Now for 
the meaning : who was a tyrant V 9 

“ Naro,” replies one. — “ Queen Elizabeth,” says another. — “ Oliver Crummel,” 
shouts a third. — “ My daddy’s landlord,” observed Neddy, “ when he turned us 
to the wide world to starve !” 

“That ’should spoken,” said the schoolmaster; “I see you understand the 
word, little Neddy.” 

“ I have good right, sir,” answered the child. 

“ Spell mother, girls,” said the schoolmaster, who gave them, as he stated, 
“ word about,” and managed to appropriate domestic phrases to the female class. 
“ I ’m not in two syllables yet, sir,” said Mary Ryan’s daughter, upon whom the 
schoolmaster’s eye fell. 

“ M-u-d — ” began one of the class. — “ No, that won’t do. Sure you ought 
all to be able to spell it ; for sorra a one that does not know what it is to have 
a good mother, barring one or two. Mary Wright, poor child ! your mother’s 
in heaven since the day she gave you to a broken-hearted world ; and, indeed, 
yours” — and again his eye fell on Mary Ryan’s daughter — “ never did much for 
you — so I ’ll excuse you.” 

“ If you please, sir,” said the girl, growing very red, “ I ’ll not be excused for 
that reason : my mother did the best she could for me ;” and — she burst into 

tears and then as suddenly checked her emotion, and spelt the cherished word 

correctly. 

“ From that hour she became the old man’s beloved pupil ; and he suffered 
her to come without any payment, or at any hour she could ; and often would 
she enter his lowly dwelling at night, with a long piece of bog wood, or a far- 
thing candle, and crouch at his feet — conning, from borrowed and half-torn 


236 


MARY RYAN S DAUGHTER. 


books, the lesson which he not only heard, but assisted her to learn — dismissing 
her with the invariable assurance that “ she would be a bright girl yet.” 

Daddy Denny greatly encouraged this love of learning. He brought her a 
slate from Wexford, and books from both Arklow and Waterford — one being 
the “ Seven Champions,” and the other “ Cinderella.” “ Learning,” he would 
tell her, “ is better than house and land, they say ; but I ’m sure it ’s better with 
the house and land than without it. Who knows what will turn up yet, if the 
Lord only spares poor daddy — till — the time comes? That’s all I pray for, 
jewel : and I take care of myself, and all for you ; though the Lord he knows 
it ’s a great loss to me — the wearing brogues I mean — to keep the could from 
my chest; — for, when I attend the coaches, the vagabone beggars set the 
quality again me, shouting, ‘ What does he want ? — look at his brogues and 
then they call me ‘ brogey and all because I want to live for your sake, 
agra ! — for I ’m almost kilt walking the world for divarshin, until it has turned 
into hard labour on me. I wish we could rouse your mother, Peggy, honey ; 
but she ’s sat under the trouble so long, that I ’m thinking she ’ll a’most miss it, 
when it goes. Ah, yah ! — well, it is a weary world — a long, weary road, to 
travel from one’s birth to one’s death: — an unbareable road, if a poor sinner 
dare say so — only for what it leads to — the heavenly Jerusalem. Oh! that’s 
great glory to think on; and them that raise their eyes to that, won’t faint 
with the length of the way. It raises a poor man’s heart to think that a 
Lazarus like myself may lay in some great saint’s bosom. Well, dear, you’re 
growing to be a’most a woman, Peggy; and don’t keep company with any 
of the boys about the place — sorra a one of them fit for you. I hope you 
haven’t got a sweetheart in your sweet head, jewel ? — it ’s mighty inconvanient 
— and ” 

“ Oh, daddy ! if I do get such a thing into my head, it ’s you that will put it 
there, and so I ’ll tell mother : — and have you seen my hen, with eleven chickens 
at her foot? Mother minds them; and the poor widow has taken ever such 
pains at the needles, and we ’re going to be rich, sure enough — so I ’ll hold my 
head as high as you please, for I ’ve got two silver testers in my pocket ; and 
I ’ll give one to you, Denny, who have been my best friend.” 

The old man took the little coin, and deposited it in one of his numerous pock- 
ets, muttering — “ I ’ll fasten it on my hades , God bless her, for a mimorial.” 

“ There ’s one thing I often want to speak about, but can’t, never, to her,” said 
the girl, “because it almost kills her. Do you know anything of my old home 
and my father ?” 

“Whisht, a’coushla! how should I know anything? You never saw me 
there.” 

“No, never — I wish I could forget it, but I can’t. I remember my mother 
catching me out of my sleep, and flying from the house like mad ;— and mind, 
too, the oaths and the curses that followed us. Oh ! then, I was glad to keep 
wandering anywhere from him.” 

“ Whisht, avourneen ! it ’s foolish to give sorrow a tongue. What do 1 know 


MARY ryan’s daughter. 237 

about such things ? Hould up yer head — sing at your work — say your prayers 
— mind your mother — and, as the schoolmaster says, Mary Ryan’s daughter will 
be a bright girl yet.” 

Two months after this little scene had passed, the widow, on waking in the 
morning, found that Mary Ryan was up before her ; — this was something new. 
P e ggy> indeed, was always a-foot early — the first to rise, on the town-land ; but 
Mary was feeble, and seldom awoke until long after the lark had finished his 
matins. For a moment the widow thought the girl had grown careless; the 
few sods of turf necessary for boiling potatoes were there, and the three-legged 
pot was hanging over them ; but the fire, so seldom extinguished in an Irish 
cabin, was out ; and the kitten, singed by the turf ashes from black to red, 
was seated on the stone, guiltless of pur or gambol, and looking as sullen as 
possible. 

“ Where are they, pusheen ?” said the widow, who would rather talk to a kit’ 
ten than remain silent. “ Is Peggy gone after some quality speciments for the 
bride and groom at the wooden bridge ? — but where ’s Mary Ryan 1 Ah ! then, 
don’t be winkin’ that way, but tell us the news.” 

“Pusheen” seemed as perplexed as her mistress, and said so in her own 
way, uttering an abrupt mew, and then humping her back with a dissatisfied 
air. The morning advanced, but no Mary returned ; no Peggy, with careful 
step and thoughtful face, swept the floor that day, or fed the hens, who looked 
about, as if in astonishment at not receiving their usual attention : her three 
books were on the poor dresser ; but her bonnet and shawl, and her mother’s 
cloak, were gone. Before night, Mrs. Harper had inquired of every neighbour 
if they had seen her friends ? No one had seen them : but a “ wise woman,” 
who had been called in the middle of the night to attend a farmer’s wife, had 
met two women and a man, as she jogged double on the farmer’s horse, and 
was fully convinced that the youngest was Mary Ryan’s daughter. The coun- 
try people were both astonished and alarmed at this mysterious disappearance ; 
and her father, who had maintained his harsh conduct towards them, relented, 
when it was too late, and endeavoured to trace them in every way. At one 
time he thought they were in Enniscorthy ; — at another, in Bray ; — but still he 
found them not. Some called to their remembrance that they had seen Daddy 
Denny and Mary Ryan in close conversation several times, and on several days 
previous to her disappearance ; — but then, as the bluff old beadsman was in the 
confidence of half the women in the parish, nothing strange was thought of it 
at the time. 

Mrs. Harper was in a state of distraction, and declared to every one, she 
would travel the world until she found them. They had replaced what was 
lost to her, in a great degree ; and while the helpless nature of poor Mary worked 
upon her affections, the steady industry and activity of the daughter command- 
ed her respect. 

It was perfectly true that the beggarman had brought information to Marv 


238 MARY ryan’s daughter. 

Ryan and her daughter, by which they were induced to leave the roof that had 
so long sheltered them. 

“ All I ’ve got to say to you, jewel, agra 1” he said, when arranging how 
they were to “ steal away ” from Mrs. Harper, “ is, tell no news, give no infor- 
mation to any one ; — now, just mind that : — and then we can let them know 
about it when the end comes; there’s no use in rising a talk, dear — it’s just 
like rising a fog, which bothers all who have any call to it. Avourneen, there ’s 
a tower of strength and a rock of wisdom in a silent tongue ! I blaze out a 
good dale, dear, myself; but one can say a power of words, without any 
maning, and that’s the way I manage the country; and, faix, many a legis- 
lature, which manes a law-maker, ma’am, would give his two born eyes for 
that same sacret. Ah-yah-wisha ! he ’s a wake-minded man that can’t keep his 
own counsel.” 

By the time the morning dawned, and Mrs. Harper awoke, the trio were far 
on their journey, and in a different direction from any it was imagined they had 
taken. — They agreed to keep off the high road as much as possible. It was 
strange to observe how Denny’s mendicant propensities, and his kind heart, were 
at variance when they reached the pretty village of Newtown-Mount Kennedy : 
the Wexford coach was just passing through, and it was evident the Daddy 
longed to prosecute his usual attack upon the pockets of the passengers ; yet he 
was loath to forsake his companions for the purpose, and consoled himself with 
rejoicing that the clumsy efforts of the clamorous crew had not procured them 
a single penny. 

“ Ah !” he exclaimed, “ it ’s wonderful hard to soften some people’s hearts ; 
they have no feelin’ in them for the .poor. I’ve heard a gentleman swear he 
wouldn’t give a beggar-woman a farthing, barring she had some fun in her, 
and, at the same time, she had a matter of six soft children starving to death 
in the sight of her eyes — it ’s hard to make fun out of starving children ! The 
insides and the outsides must have different tratement altogether. You may 
pass a joke with the outsides, and touch them up with a story betwixt times ; 
but seeing it ’s mostly ladies and gentlemen that ’s insides, they must be handled 
like a nest of young thrushes ; no matter how ould they are, the ladies I mean, 
— a blessing on their beauty will smoothen all their frowns away. I remember 
once, a very stately one — and frosty-faced she was — an ould residenter upon 
the earth, sure enough ; — well, one poor innocent young woman held up her 
baby to her, and bid her think of her own little grandchildren at home. Och ! 
that turned her to hard vinegar ! Another prayed the Lord might make her bed 
in heaven. Well, that’s foolish, for people that are rich and ould don’t like to 
think of their end — not a halfpenny did they get ; but, at last, ‘ Sweet lady,’ I 
says, * I ’m thinking of the little sixpence you gave me, two years age, and 
God bless you for it.’ * That ’s a lie,’ she says, ‘ for I never gave a beggar a 
sixpence in all my life.’ ‘ Didn’t ye, dear !’ I says, 4 well, then, it must have 
been Lady Mary, the beauty of the county, and it ’s no wonder I ’d make the 
mistake, for you’re as like as two peas in a pod.’ I saw the corners of her 
7 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


230 


mouth move ; and she gives me a penny ! If ye see a raw college boy, with a 
goold band to his cap, sure he wants to be thought in the military line ; and 
ye ’re safe in calling him 4 handsome captain,’ or 4 noble major.’ I ’ve known 
a shopboy have the same dress outside on a week’s holiday to his people: 
there’s no harm in mistaking every spalpeen you meet for a gentleman — 
though,” added Denny, thoughtfully, 44 it ’s not pleasant to be degrading one’s 
self, if one could help it. When ye see a lady, with little children about her, 
praise the children ; and if they ’re as ugly as frogs, lay on them all kinds of 
angels ; and if they ’re roaring wicked, with ill-temper, call them 4 little lambs ;’ 
then, if she has any motherly feeling about her, you ’re sure of a tester : if ye 
see a couple mighty loving together, ye may bless the lady’s sweet face ; but 
it ’s hardly sure, for, bedad ! the young men think as much of their own beauty 
— and may -be it ’s nothing you ’ll get for your trouble : it ’s asy enough to work 
the money out of any pocket, if ye can understand the nature of the body that 
carries it — that’s where the knowledge is wanting. Foreigners are mighty soft 
at first ; and there used to be grate trade intirely at the Pigeon House, and 
about there — women with twins — as near to match as they could get ’em — 
widows — deserted wives, and fatherless children — lame men, blind men, and the 
falling sickness ; but that ’s over long ago : in the heart of the war I made a 
purty penny myself, as a wounded soldier, with a plate in my head and a bad 
leg — anything for a bit of bread ! Sure the half of us would work if we could 
get it ; and the Lord above knows that the lies we tould for variety , weren’t 
worse than the truth ; — that the plain, hard, griping starvation was with us at 
home and abroad, by night and by day ; — that was true, any how ; but people 
had heard of it so often, they did not like to be bothered with it ; so, after all 's 
said and done, it was against that we strove — God help us and forgive us the 
inventions — starvation makes one ’s wits bright, bedad ! I was so thin, one or 
two of the hard summers, that if it wasn’t that I had the wit to put stones in my 
wallet, I ’d have been blown away.” 

I wish I had space to recount all Daddy Denny’s stories. Some of them 
could not fail to make you weep; and his transitions from humour to pathos 
were truly characteristic of his calling. There are many who cannot fail to 
remember this energetic, yet lazy personage, who latterly begged from habit, 
rather than necessity ; and who was at all times trusty, and trusted by many 
of his superiors, particularly in the time of 44 the troubles,” when, I have been 
told, he was in the prime of life, and rendered humane assistance to whoever 
needed it. 

The wanderers had journeyed for nearly a week, when, on the evening of 
the fifth day — 44 Do you know where you are, Peggy I” inquired Mary Ryan 
of her daughter. 44 1 think I do,” replied the girl ; 44 1 think I know the turn of 
that river — I think — yes, I do know those trees; that’s just the way the crows 
used to be flying, with the same noise — yes, mother — though I never looked from 
this hill before. I know that big brick house, and the gate that I used to be climb- 


240 


MARY RYAN S DAUGHTER. 


ing, but never could swing on. Och !” she added, with an involuntary shudder 
“ I hope we ain’t going to live there again.” 

“ Whisht, honey ! whisht !” ejaculated the beggarman ; “ wishing is a mighty 
foolish thing for those who put their trust in God. Sure everything will turn 
out well to those who have faith, dear, — if not well for this world — well for the 
next. I ’ll go now and hear the news, and you can sit here with yer mother til! 
I ’rn back, a’coushla,” and away went Denny at his own particular and profes- 
sional trot. 

Peggy found a “ dry ditch” for her mother to rest on ; and, having rolled her 
own shawl into a “ soft sate,” she made her sit upon it, placing herself higher 
up, so that her mother’s head rested in her lap. The worn-out woman did not 
speak a word for more than an hour ; but the large tears kept rolling from her 
eyes, whilst her daughter murmured, every now and then, “ Mother, avourneen ! 
don’t take on so — mother, darlin’, you ’re wearin’ out my heart — mother, honey, 
trust in the Lord. Oh, what will I do at all ! and no one near me — she ’ll die 
here with the fair trouble o’ mind.” 

“ Trouble is a long time killin’, or I ’d have been dead long ago,” replied her 
mother, to whom the shedding of tears had been a relief — “ but I ’m easier now, 
God be praised ; and, Peggy, the time is come for me, your mother, to humble 
myself to tell you, my born child, the whole truth.” 

“ Don’t distress yerself, darlin’ mother ! don’t, I know all I want to know,” 
replied the girl, with a trembling voice ; “ where ’s the good of going it over ?” 

“ You know nothing, Peggy — how should you?” 

“ Oh, bad news travels with hare’s feet,” she answered ; “ but don’t, mother ; 
I ’d be happier not to hear it from your own self ; because I ’ll be still thinking, 
may-be, the half was lies.” 

“ Peggy, honey, in sight of his house, and under the blessed canopy of heaven 
— and knowing the Almighty’s eyes are on me — as sure as all this, so surely am 
I your father’s wife !” The girl, at first, made no reply, but clasped her hands 
around her parent’s neck, and, at last, said : — “ An’ why didn’t you tell me this 
before ? sure if it was a sacret, not to take away my shame would I own it — 
only just for inward satisfaction to myself.” 

“ Why you never let on to me you were reproached with it, my darling.” 

“ No, mother — how could I ? sure it isn’t easing my own heart by chilling 
yours I ’d be ! but what does it signify ? I’m able for the world now ! I can 
look an honest woman’s daughter in the face ; — oh, mother, jewel, and I to doubt 
you !” 

“ You must hold your tongue still, Peggy, until I give you leave to speak. 
Your father, dear, was above me, and I’d never have known him, but for his 
coming about our place in the shooting season. My father and mother had 
fixed on one in my own line of life for me, and I knew I ’d be forced to marry 
him if I stayed at home ; and all the time my heart’s whole love was with your 
father. I tried to hide this from my father and mother, as well as from the 
young man I loved ; but, och, hone ! I blinded my parents, but not my lover. 


MARY ryanV daughter. 241 

I was proud of his love — he was so above me — and he said he was proud of 
my beauty ! Well, dear, I agreed to leave my parents, as he promised to marry 
me ; but as he was entirely dependent on his father, he book-swore me to keep 
it secret from man and mortal till his father’s death. I was satisfied, and went 
with him one Sunday evening — to return no more : he eased my heart with a 
marriage ; but there was only us two by, and the priest, if he was a priest, who 
said the words. For the first few months he was very kind ; and though I was 
under the heaviest shadow that can fall on a woman, still I was his wife, and I 
bowed down under it, thankful to look at him — to hear him speak ; though his 
words became mixed with bitterness, still the voice was his. You were born; 
and what was such joy to me, was sorrow to him : his father, he said, grew 
frightened for fear he should marry me ; and, instead of being allowed to sit 
at his table, he sent me to the kitchen, there to bear the insults of an old bad 
woman, whose daughter had formerly filled my place. Oh, my darling child ! 
may the Lord preserve you from the double death of finding out, bit by bit, 
that what you loved was below hate. Still, I clung to him ; I longed to go 
home, and then thought how I had no home : my mother was kind, but I had 
a hard father. I thought, may-be, that, being his wife, God might turn his 
heart ; and I told him so, once. — Oh ! the cruelty of that laugh, when he an- 
swered that I was a fool, and dared me to find a witness for what had passed 
between us. As long as I thought to do him good, it was well enough ; but I 
roused against this, and he turned us from his door with curses and blows — 
blows, darlin’, that fell only on me. I thought to tell his father the truth ; but 
even if I hadn’t taken the oath, sure it would hurt him, and not have served you, 
for I wouldn’t be believed : since then, darlin’, he openly married one of his own 
rank, for his father died.” 

“ And why did we come here, mother, darlin’ ; and what has Daddy Denny 
to do with us ?” asked Peggy. 

“ There’s no time to tell that,” interrupted the beggar, who had approached 
without being observed — “ no time ; the breath ’s in him still, and the use he 
made of it for the last twenty minutes is to rave about you ; and my heart aches 
for the poor lady who is patient as a lamb, and begs, for God’s sake, to bring 
any one that will ease his mind — ” 

“ Then you ‘Were sent for, mother, dear ?” inquired the poor girl, while assist- 
ing her to rise. “ Yes, dear; Daddy contrived to get a friend of his own into 
the place, and when your father got this mortal sickness, he brought me to be 
near, thinking that, at the last, he might do us justice.” 

The three hurried to the house, which was full of lamentation — people run- 
ning backward and forward, crying and howling “ for the master.” The priest, 
who had administered “ the last rites,” was standing near the door, reproving 
the more noisy. Dennis advanced to his reverence, and falling on his knees to 
crave his blessing, which was quickly granted — told him that “ the woman his 
honour wanted to see was come !” “ Then you have had a hand in this ?” said 

the priest — “ but so best, Denny; if you never do worse, the next penance I give 

31 


242 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


you — (and I gave you one , I remember, about six years ago) — I will not put you 
to much trouble : let the woman come in V 9 

When Mary entered the chamber of death, the last throes of dissolving na- 
ture were convulsing the frame of the dying man ! She staggered towards the 
bed — from which the lady he had married, had been forcibly removed — and, 
falling on her knees, clasped and kissed his clammy hand. He rallied, and 
recognised her ; he felt her hand, finger by finger, and when he touched the ring 
he half rose up — stammered “Mary” — fell back — and his spirit departed. 
The poor woman forgot everything save the love of her early days : she uttered 
no complaint of his cruelty and injustice, but she wept bitterly. Not so Den 
nis ; he had expected that wrong would have been made right — and he followed 
“his reverence” out of the house; when every beggar in the district crowded 
into it, expecting the tobacco and whiskey, besides other good cheer, which in 
these days accompanied the funerals of all classes. Whatever his conversation 
with the priest may have been, it was known only to themselves, but it had the 
effect of sending Denny back to the house, where he mingled among the crowd, 
seeking Mary Ryan, or her daughter, and hoping they might not have left the 
house. At Ia^t one of the servants told him, that the woman the “ poor master 
called for,” had fallen in a fit, that she had carried her to a loft, and that, for 
her part, she didn’t think she ’d live. “ And the girl V 9 She knew nothing 
about her, except that she had set a strange girl in a back house to mind the 
boilings, or there ’d be nothing for the people to eat, — the dwelling was so 
“ throng,” and would be worse as the night drew on. She locked her in, and 
wouldn’t have thought of her for another hour or two, but for him. Dennis 
reconnoitred through a window, and, finding that the unwilling watcher was 
Mary’s daughter, accomplished her liberation; and having first charged her 
on no account — no matter what indignity she or her mother suffered, to leave 
the place until he told them they might do so, he sent her in search of Mary 
Ryan. After much delay and many repulses, Peggy succeeded : it was a 
miserable loft, in a distant part of the rambling building, where she had been 
carried ; the slates were off in many places, and the wind rushed through the 
shadowy laths, tumbling, at every fresh gust, some lump of mortar, or clatter- 
ing tile. As the night advanced, the voices of intoxicated persons, mingled 
into one great discordant noise, ascended to where the heart-broken girl was 
chafing her mother’s hands ; while she laid across her feet to impart a portion 
of her young warmth to her parent’s weary limbs. She had arranged some 
old curtains that had been thrown into a corner to decay, into a tolerably com- 
fortable bed, and moistened her lips with some milk which the servant had 
given her for herself ; her consolation was, that there they were left to them- 
selves ; and, from behind a parapet, she could see all that passed in the court- 
yard. The moon rose to its full height, and the shadows it threw upon the 
floor were, she thought, very terrible. Once a huge cat peered down upon 
her from a rafter, and then scampered away, while bits of the old roof tumbled 
on all sides. She was shivering from head to foot, and the old damp hangings 


MARY ryan’s daughter. 243 

she threw over her shoulders, seemed to make her still more cold ; but her 
mother slept, breathing as gently as a sleeping child — that , at least, was a 
consolation ; if it had not increased her loneliness the more, it would indeed 
have made her heart beat with thankfulness and joy. She knelt softly down 
by her mother’s side, and, after repeating her prayers, she enumerated to her- 
self every instance she had ever heard of God’s watchful care by night, as 
well as by day ; this strengthened and refreshed her ; and yet every cloud that 
passed athwart the moon, and so caused a partial eclipse to the small, shiver- 
ing, chilly light, which flickered through the apertures, made her repeat the 
words more fervently : sometimes she would fix her eyes on a bright solitary 
star, and then turn them on her mother, who looked, in the dim uncertain light, 
so deathly pale, that the girl would hold in her own breath to listen for the 
manifestation that she was still in life. Suddenly she was roused from a nod- 
ding sleep, by the fall of a stone, or brick, which rattled into the room, followed 
by a heavy grunting sort of noise, as of a person breathing hard after violent 
exertion. A shriek quivered on her lip, but she repressed it, and immediately 
felt the wisdom of having done so. “ Peg — Peggy, avourneen,” puffed a well- 
known voice, “ don’t be frightened, darlin’ — it ’s me, a’coushla machree — ould 
Daddy Denny — wait till I catch my breath, which is flying from me like wid- 
geon from a gun — och, hone ! — I’m too ould for climbing, and couldn’t have 
reached you at all, but for the tough bames of the stable, and a ladder, dear, 
that Peter Mullowny’s houlding. I ’ve got the girl of the house, dear, to forget 
where yez are — and so keep quiet till ye ’re wanted, jewel ; and here ’s more 
than you ’ll ait, I know, for the three days of the wake — or drink aither, — 
fresh mate, and white bread of your own — father’s, I mane ; for, poor man — 
God be good to him — he ’s to the fore still, and a fine wake as ever I was at, 
lashings of everything, more especially people : the lady has a fine spirit in her 
— an’ — but, faix, dear, my head’s bothered somehow, and the moon ’s turning 
round on me, so the Lord be wid yez — I needn’t bid ye take care of yer mother 
— for sure it’s Mary Ryan’s daughter ye are — and pray for your sinful soul — 
I mean my — hould hard and fast, Peter, dear — for somehow both myself and 
the ladder ’s mighty unsteady.” 

‘‘The girl of the house” did, to all appearance, forget Mary Ryan and her 
daughter ; but some one, every morning, placed a full measure of milk at the 
rough door of the loft — a measure so full, that, after both had partaken abun- 
dantly thereof, they had enough to cause the great cat, which had so frightened 
Mary, to purr and look as contented and cheerful as became the solidity and 
respectability of his ancient race. Still, these three days and nights passed in 
all the aching anxiety of knowing nothing — and hoping and fearing all things. 
At last the wild, yet solemn pageantry was over. The hearse, the mourners, 
the priests, the people departed. Mary Ryan watched from the broken roof, 
the road it took — the same road she and her child had traversed in years long 
ago : — they had returned ; but he who drove them to despair would return no 
more. Holy masses were said for the repose of his soul that day, but none 


244 MARY ryan’s daughter. 

prayed as fervently for his eternal repose as she whose heart he had crushed 
almost to bursting. 

Peggy wept and prayed from sympathy with her mother, but she could hardly 
keep down the spirit of strong indignation that was roused by a full sense of the 
injustice they had sustained ; and no Hart ever panted for the water-brooks 
more than did her’s for liberty. 

Before the funeral was completely out of sight, the only noise that broke upon 
the stillness of the house was the rough shutting-to of doors, and the echo of 
footsteps ; at last “ the girl of the house ” made her appearance, and beckoning 
them to follow down a half ladder, half stair, conducted them to a large par- 
lour, from which the remnants of the entertainment had been hastily removed, 
and thrust them, with very little ceremony, and sundry mutterings of “ being 
bothered with the like,” into a sort of ante-room to which it led. The door hung 
loosely on its hinges, and remained unclosed. Presently, a pale, gentle-looking 
woman entered the room, and her widow’s dress made Mary’s heart beat more 
quickly ; she was followed by others, who had returned from the funeral, and, 
in a short time, the party were placed round the table, the priest being seated 
at the widow’s right hand, while the attorney of the next town intimated his 
intention of reading the will of his “ late friend.” 

He read and read ; but all that Mary Ryan and her daughter could compre- 
hend was, that he read the same thing over and over again. At last — was it 
— could it be possible — were they awake? Was it reality? Could he who had 
that day entered the cold and silent grave — could he have made such a confes- 
sion ? “ Mary Ryan — his only lawful wife !” and such and such lands to pass 
to her and her child ! — “ thereby hoping to make atonement for his sins” Peg- 
gy felt her mother sinking, and clasped her in her arms ; after this all was con- 
fusion : the lady who had been so grossly deceived was carried from the room 
totally insensible ; her brother, roused at such indignity, declared the man must 
have been out of his senses, and that there was no proof ; and while the attor- 
ney avowed the man’s perfect sanity, the priest said that, without, of course, 
violating the sacredness of the confessional, there was proof, — and Daddy 
Denny was brought forward, who declared he had witnessed the marriage, by 
means anything but straightforward certainly ; and of this fact even Mary Ryan 
was not aware until that moment. Daddy Denny was very unwilling to be 
cross-questioned on the subject, but was obliged to submit ; and certainly the 
evidence was very clear, even according to his own showing — that he had been 
courting a “responsible woman” — the servant to the “couple beggar”’ — who 
performed the hasty ceremony, and that she had “ put him in press,” in a corner 
cupboard, to be out of the way, from whence he saw Mary married. After all, 
the woman jilted him ; and, at any other time, his bitterness on the subject 
would have created much amusement. Mary and her daughter had come forth 
in the melee , and if a doubt had existed of the nobleness of Mary’s nature, it 
would have vanished before the earnestness she evinced that nothing might be 
done to hurt the poor lady’s feelings. 


MARY RYAN’S DAUGHTER. 


245 


Daddy Denny always stoutly denied that he knew the contents of the will- 
how should he ? — his anxiety to keep Mary and her daughter in the house, be- 
ing (I quote his own words) “ intirely from a drame he had.” Be that as it 
may ; — Peggy, or, as she was called on the evening of her changed fortunes, 
Miss Margaret, is living still, and often speaks to him she loves best in all the 
world — her husband — of the enduring patience and virtue of her mother, who 
lived meekly and prosperously during the remainder of her few years, and died 
soon after her daughter became a wife. 

What a privilege it is to know a person unspoiled by prosperity ! — Mary’s 
daughter is one of these. I have sat with her, upon her mother’s grave, and 
heard her story, of which I am the faithful chronicler ; and at that time the 
beggarman — then hale and hearty as a frosty day — stood beside us ; since then 
he has fallen asleep ; but I well remember the proud expression of his bright 
face, as he asked me what I thought of Mary Ryan’s daughter 1 



* 



WOOING AND WEDDING. 


T was a rich and glowing evening, in the budding 
and blossoming month of May — the sun was setting 
with calm magnificence over a cultivated, and beau- 
tiful country, and there was nothing to obstruct the 
view of his farewell glory, except the high and ver- 
dant trees, whose leaves were hardly moved by the 
passing zephyr. No one could enjoy so happy a 
scene more fervently than Helen Gardiner — Helen, 
the most lovely lass in the whole country — purely and 
truly lovely was she, so delicate, so graceful — the 
gracefulness of nature. It was very strange, and I 
never could account for it, but Helen was decidedly 
not a coquette; how she came to avoid it, I know 
not ; it is a fault that pretty women almost univer- 
sally fall into. Yet there she was, the second daugh- 

1246) 



THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


247 

ter of^an opulent farmer, in her twentieth year — a belle and a beauty; and, 
most certainly, she never flirted one single bit in her whole life — good-tempered 
and affable withal — active in her domestic duties — exquisitely neat in her person 
(the sure index of a well-regulated mind), and exact in the performance of her 
duty. I have said she was lovely, and it is most true ; but she was very pale — 
it was seldom, indeed, that the faintest colour tinted her fair cheek ; her hair 
was of a deep chestnut, plainly braided across a well-formed forehead, and con- 
fined in a large knot, or sometimes plait, at the back of her head ; her eyes were 
decidedly beautiful, like two large dewy violets — and such eyelashes ! — fancy 
her other features as harmonizing with her placid character — and fancy also a 
dignified figure, and then exert your imagination to finish the picture, and behold 
our rustic favourite, on such an evening as I have described, sitting at the door 
of a happy well-wooded cottage in Somersetshire, sometimes looking up from 
her occupation (which, by the way, was trimming a neat straw bonnet with 
plain green riband), to glance at the glorious sky, or, more frequently, watching 
a long green lane which led to the house, and in which nothing very interesting 
appeared to an ordinary observer. It would seem that not many visiters came 
up that lonely footway, for the little path was nearly overgrown by long grass. 
Yet, true it is, that Helen watched it, and true, also, that when the sound of two 
cheerful voices rang upon her ear, she looked no more, but most assiduously 
pinned on the strings, arranged the simple bow, and concluded, just as two men 
emerged from under the overhanging trees, by running an obstinate corking-pin 
into her finger. 

“ Helen, why, Helen ?” exclaimed the elder, who was her father ; “ here ’s 
your old friend, Mr. Connor — to be sure, we are all glad to see him.” 

Helen extended her hand to the younger of the party, and her eyes spoke the 
welcome which her tongue refused. She led the way into her cottage ; her 
father and the stranger followed. The two men were odd contrasts ; — Gardiner 
was a perfect picture of an English yeoman, habited in a clean white “ frock ;” 
his round and florid countenance proclaiming peace, plenty, and much pru- 
dence; and his hair, which, unthinned by time, fell over his movable and 
wrinkled brow, was slightly touched by gone-by years. “ Mr. Connor” (or as 
he was called in his own land, for he was a rale Emeralder — “ Mark, the tra- 
veller”), was a fine, handsome fellow, gifted by nature with an animated ex- 
pressive countenance, and manners far above his situation in life: there was 
a mingling both of wildness and tenderness in his voice and address ; and his 
garments, of the blended costumes of both countries, had a picturesque appear- 
ance to English eyes. He could never be reconciled to smock-frocks, to which 
all the Irish peasantry have a decided antipathy ; but he had discarded knee- 
breeches and woollen stockings, and wore trowsers, which certainly looked 
better with his long blue coat ; his scarlet waistcoat was “ spick and span new,” 
his yellow silk neckerchief tied loosely, so as to display his fine throat, and his 
smart hat so much on one side of his thickly curling hair, that it seemed almost 
doubtful if it could retain its position. “ Mark, the traveller,” was the eldest son 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


248 

of a respectable cattle-dealer, and frequently visited England to dispose of live 
stock, whether pigs, cows, or sheep, which, of course, he could sell more 
cheaply than English farmers could rear them. He had long known Helen and 
her father, and had loved the former with fervour and constancy. She loved 
him, too, silently and unchangingly ; the gracefulness of his manners first at- 
tracted her attention, and she saw — or what even with a sensible girl in love, is 
pretty much the same thing — she fancied she saw — good and noble qualities to 
justify her attachment. Those quiet, pensive sort of girls, have always ten times 
the feeling and romance of your sparkling, giddy gipsies ; and notwithstanding 
that Helen discharged all her duties as usual, and no common observer could 
have perceived any alteration, yet her heart often wandered over the salt sea, 
beat at the sound of the Irish brogue, and silently inquired if, indeed, the natives 
of the green island could be uncivilized savages ? She had, moreover, a very 
strong passion for green , and it was actually whispered that she wore in hei 
bosom, a shamrock brooch, carefully concealed by the folds of her clear white 
kerchief. Her elder sister had been a wife, a mother, and a widow, within 
twelve months, and resided with her father and Helen ; they might truly be 
called a united, contented family ; perhaps Helen was somewhat more than 
contented, as she prepared the simple supper for their visiter, who hhd been 
some days expected, and who sat in their neat little parlour, at the open case- 
ment, into which early roses, and the slender Persian lilac, were flinging perfume 
and beauty ; the honest farmer puffing away at his long white pipe, as he leaned 
half out on the painted window-sill. 

“ I ’m thinking, Mr. Conner, ye don’t use such long pipes as these uns, in your 
country V 9 said the yeoman, after a pause. 

“Ye may say that, sure enough ; — we brake them off close to the bowl — and 
thin it comes hot and strong to us.” 

“Ye’re very fond of things hot and strong in that place, Mister Conner; but 
I ’ll do you the justice to say, I never saw you in liquor all my life, though I 
have known you now more than six years.” 

“ Nor never will, sir, I hope and trust. I never had a fancy for it, nor my 
father before me ; which was a powerful blessing to the entire family, seeing it 
kept us out o’ harm’s way.” 

“ I knew I had something particular to speak to you about,” resumed the old 
man. “ Do you remember the last lot of pigs you sold me ?” 

“ May-be I don’t.” 

“ That means I do, I take it, in English. Well, perhaps you recollect one 
with a black head — a long-bodied animal — strangely made about the shoulders ?” 

“ Ough, an’ it ’s I remember it, the quare baste ! good rason have I ; with 
its wigly-wagly tail, and the skreetches of it. Sure, because ye were my friend, 
I warned ye to have nothing to say to her ; and you (’cause, ye mind, ye said 
when she was broadened out, she would make good bacon) took a great fancy 
to her, and so I let you have her, a dead bargain.” 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


249 

“ Bargain, indeed ! she would eat nothing we could give her, and, knowing 
she was Irish, Helen picked the potatoes, mealy ones, and ” 

Here Mark cast a look of indignation at his host, and exclaimed— 

“Well, that bates Bannaher ! Miss Helen, who’s more like an angel than 
a woman, pick potatoes for an unmannerly sort of a pig ; a Connaught pig , too 
that could have no sort of manners ! Sure I ought to have tould ye, sir, the 
Connaught chaps (the pigs I mane) ’ll never eat boiled potatoes — the unman- 
nerly toads, it ’s just like them. Well, to make up for his ignorance, take yer 
pick out of the drove for nothing, and welcome, to-morrow, and I ’ll go bail not a 
Connaught pig is in the lot — not a squeak did they give, getting on board, only 
all quiet and civil as princes.” 

“ Thank ye, that ’s honest, and more than honest,” replied the farmer. “ 1 
have no objection to an abatement — that’s all fair; but to take the pig for 
nothing is what I won’t do ; for ye see fair is fair, all the world over.” 

“You’ll do what I say, master, because ye’re an old friend ; and be in no 
trouble on account of the cost, for I’ve had a powerful dale of luck lately. My 
mother’s uncle, in America, is dead, and left a dale more behind than ’ill bury 
him ; a good seventy a-piece to the three of us — and so, before I came this 
turn to England, I took a neat bit of ground on my own account ; and have as 
pretty a house on it as any in the county, for the size of it ; three nice rooms, 
with a door in the middle, and a loft ; it was built for a steward’s lodge ; and a 
bawn at the back, with every convenience ; and, when I was on the move, 1 
left ten pounds o’ the money with Matty, my youngest brother, to have the room 
off the kitchen boarded for a parlour, for I mean to have it the very morral of 
an English cottage, as I mean — if — if — I — can — to have an English — girl for a 
a — a wife.” 

“ Well done, well said, Mister Conner ; but who do you think would go over 
with you to that unchristian country, where ” 

“ I ax yer pardon, sir, ye ’re under a mistake ; there are as good Christians, 
and Protestant Christians, too, in Ireland as in England — (I mean no offence) 
— and with such as fills that purse (and he drew from his bosom a long leather 
bag, and flung it on the table), and such a boy as myself, an English girl may be 
had, Mister Cardiner ; though (he added, in a subdued tone) the one my heart is 
set upon is not to be bought with silver or gould.” 

“ Not bought with silver or gold, Mr. Mark ! Well, hang it, that’s more than 
I ’d say to any of the sex.” 

“ You wrong them, then, sir; — money ’s a powerful thing — but look, there ’s 
some of them (one that I know of in partickler), so pure somehow— like a lily, 
for all the world — that a heavy sorrow would crush, or the least thing in life 
spot; and nothing could buy the love of that heart, because, as well as I can 
make it out, it has more of heaven than earth about it.” 

“No one can make you Irishmen out,” retorted the farmer, laughing: “ bui 
may I ask who this lily — this delicate flower, is?” 

“ Is it who it is ?” replied Mark : “ why, then, no, one but yer own daughter 
32 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


250 

Helen Gardiner by name, and an angel by nature ; and now the murder’s out,'’ 
he continued, “ and my heart ’s a dale lighter.” 

The worthy yeoman put down his pipe, and looked at Mark Connor with a 
sort of stupid astonishment; he was a keen, sensible man, shrewd and knowing 
in matters concerning wheat, rye, oats, and all manner of grain ; the best judge 
of horse-flesh in the whole county ; and such a cricketer! such an eye ! — could 
get six, or, perhaps, seven notches at one hit, and was, even then, a first-rate 
bowler ; had, moreover, an uncontaminated affection for youthful sports, 
marbles, ball, humming and spinning tops ; and would leave his pipe, at any 
time, for a game of blind-man’s buff ; yet it was certainly true that the idea of 
Mark Connor’s aspiring to the station of his son-indaw never once entered the 
honest farmer’s head. “My Helen l Well, Mister Connor, every father, that 
is, every man who has the feelings of a father, must feel as a compliment an 
offer — I mean such as yours — and I take it very sensible that you have men- 
tioned the matter to me first, Mister. Mark, because, of course, I must know 
best. As to Helen, poor girl, she has never thought about anything of the 
sort ; and, indeed, Mister Connor, although I highly respect you, and knew 
your father in the Bristol Market, an honest man (though an Irishman) as any 
in England, and know you to be a Protestant, and all, yet I must say my girl 
is very dear to me, and I should not like to trust — I mean, not like her to leave 
Old England.” 

Mark Connor was not much discomfited by these observations ; he pushed 
his hair back from his forehead, and paused a moment or two ; during the inter- 
val the farmer resumed his pipe, and puffed, and puffed. 

“ You were quite right, farmer,” resumed the lover, after a pause, “ quite 
right in supposing that I had never mentioned matrimony to Miss Helen, but ye 

see I mintioned ” 

“ What?” 

“Why, it came quite natural like, the least taste of love; and she never gain- 
said me, though she listened like any lamb.” 

“ Indeed,” said Mr. Gardiner, “ you must give me leave to — almost doubt 
you. Now,” he continued, seeing that Mark’s face assumed a glowing aspect, 
“no anger, no getting into a passion for nothing — let us understand each other. 
Helen is my child ; I love her more than any other living thing, and have done 
so ever since she, my wife, whom she is so like, was taken from this home to 
one she was better suited for. She was — ” John Bull’s heart, whatever its 
casket may be, retains the stamp of early affection longer than any other heart 
in the world, and the feelings of the honest farmer sent some big tears to his 
eyes, when he remembered her who had possessed his perfect love for more 
than thirty years. “Forgive me; if you love Helen, you can forgive me, for 
still mourning one my dear girl so closely resembles. It is not natural, Mister 
Connor, that I should like my child to leave me, particularly to go to a country 
of which I have been told much evil ; and, had Helen never heard of this, I 
certainly should not have told her ; I know she regards vou as a friend — but 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 25l 

love, believe me, is out of the question ; however, I will this moment speak to 
her, and but I will first speak to her on the subject.” 

The farmer bustled out of the room, and summoned Helen into the little 
apartment which she called her own ; it was a neat, delicate lodgment, fit 
resting-place for such a maiden. The walls were of snowy whiteness; a large 
looking-glass, in a plain black frame, surmounted the chimney, on which were 
placed sundry little rural figures, in variegated china. A deer, a fawn, a trim 
girl, with her milking-pail— (the pail, by the way, green, and the tree which 
overshadowed, a bright blue, but that was of little consequence) — then a shep- 
herd with a smart pink hat, with a purple flageolet, and two hornless goats, one 
minus three legs— then the pretty pictures ! — the neat sampler with its border 
of blue strawberries, and yellow roses — “ Helen Gardiner, aged ten years,” in 
double-cross stitch at the bottom ; the bed, with its white cotton hangings, and 
its pretty patch quilt, all diamonds, corner-pieces, and striped bordering, har- 
monizing wonderfully well after all. The simple toilet with its snowy covering 
— and the glistening cherry-tree wardrobe — putting to shame French polish, 
and Neapolitan varnish, by its brightness. On one of the two rush-bottompd 
chairs Mr. Gardiner seated himself, and drew the other closer to him, which 
Helen was directed to occupy. Helen trembled much at first, but still more, 
when her father somewhat abruptly inquired, if Mr. Connor had ever asked her 
to marry him ? 

“ No, father,” was her immediate reply — given, nevertheless, in a tremulous 
voice, while busily occupied in rolling up the end of her band, which, by the 
way, was green, also. 

“ Nor ever talked to you of love V* 

“ Love, father V* 

“ Yes, love, I suppose you call d.” 

“ No — that is, not much, father.” 

“ Well, I am glad he has not spoken much on the subject, Helen ; for, indeed, 
it would grieve me to see you married to an Irishman, however worthy he 
might be. So, my dear, I will tell Connor at once that he must give it up, as — 
as — it is the better way, I assure you.” 

“ Dear father,” exclaimed Helen, grasping his hand, as he rose from his seat ; 
“ you do not, cannot mean what you say ; indeed you must not — it would — make 

me so — very ” 

“ What, child V 9 

“ Oh, dear father, after the encouragement — indeed you must not ” 

“Here’s a coil! — must not — encouragement — and all that. Why, Mary — 
Mary, I say ” 

Helen’s widowed sister entered. 

“ Did you khow of this pretty piece of work — your sister’s listening to love- 
tales, and giving encouragement to a man, an Irishman too. without my know- 
ledge ?” 


252 


THU WOOING AND WEDDING. 


“ I knew, sir, certainly, that Helen was attached to Mark Connor, and Mark 
Connor to her, and it was impossible to suppose that you did not know it also ; 
for you may remember how much they have been together, and you never pre- 
vented it.” 

“ How did I suppose they were to fall in love ? — Helen, who was so strict, not 
like other girls ! Surely she refused Alexander Brownrig — a man that half the 
girls in the parish are after.” 

“ I am sure,” interrupted Mary, “ it was Mark Connor who drove Brownrig 
out of her head.” 

“ I wish he had been driving his own pigs, then,” responded the father ; 
“ but there, Helen, there — since you choose to fall in love without my con- 
sent, I suppose my consent is not necessary for your marriage — there, let go my 
hand.” 

She did let go his hand, for the unkindness he expressed had such an effect 
on her gentle spirit that she fainted on the floor, before her sister or father 
could support her : the revolution in her parent’s feelings was instantaneous ; 
depressed his lips to her pale forehead, bestowed on her all the endearing 
epijjhets he could think of, and finally called in Mark to help to revive her: 
both father and lover knelt at her bed-side, while her sister chafed her tem- 
ples with such refreshing stimulants as the cottage afforded. When- she 
op^ed her eyes, they rested upon the two beings she loved most, and the 
‘‘^colour flashed over her pallid features, as words of sweet import broke upon 
her ear. 

“ I won’t refuse either consent or blessing, my own Helen, but you ought to 
have told me you loved ” 

“ Hush ! dear, dear father !” cried the blushiijg^girl, ft as she raised herself on 
the simple couch ; “ do both go away, and I shall be better, quite -well, in the 
morning.” 

“ What piece of finery is this ?” said the father, picking off the coverlet the 
identical shamrock brooch which I before hinted at. 

“ Oh, nothing, only — a — a — ” 

“ A little token I gave her,” said Mark, smilingf“ though I never knew she 
wore it before.” 

“ She always wore it,” observed her sister, “ except when you came ; I ’m 
sure, father, you might have seen it, confining the folds of her neckerchief.” 

Notwithstanding the different feelings of the little party who assembled 
around the plain supper-table of Farmer Gardiner on that memorable evening 
they might all have been pronounced happy. Helen and Mark were perfectly 
so ; the old man had resolved to make the best of the matter, and was also 
pleased and flattered by his intended son-in-law expressing his hopes that he 
would come over to them and lay out their farm upon the rfiost approved 
English principles. The youthful widow, the light of whose existence had 
been so dimmed by the loss of the partner her heart had chosen in all the 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 253 

purity of its first affcctio.i, looked upon her sister, and the smile struggled with 
the unbidden tear, as she pressed her own little one to her heart. 

The next day it was very evident that something was going forward of a 
particular nature in the cottage ; a great part of the early morning was spent 
in consultation with Julia Mailing, the little London dressmaker, who sported 
a French hat and French curls — “ only just come up;” — and then an adjourn- 
ment to the village shop; and, in the afternoon, Mark Connor and Mr. Gardi- 
ner, mounted upon their trusty nags, set off to Bristol, both looking full of 
business, and then came a cutting and snipping of book-muslin and sundry 

prints, and glimpses of white satin riband, and but it is unnecessary to 

dwell upon the preparations ; my readers must know already that nothing but 
a wedding is anticipated ; and a W'edding surely it was, though not conducted 
after the bridegroom’s notions of the parade essential on such an occasion. 
Helen, to be sure, looked most beautiful — every body (that is every body who 
saw her) said she looked more beautiful than any woman in the world ever 
looked before, but Mark complained sadly that there were not people enough, 
nor dancing enough ; and then Helen did not appear to be half joyous enough ; 
and when, as the ceremony was concluded, he pressed her to his bosom, and 
called her “ wife !” he was somewhat mortified to find her warm and glowing 
cheek wet with many tears; he could mot. understand, when he w r as literally 
half mad with joy, what could make her sad, for he knew she loved him ; and he 
thought to himself that had his wedding been in Ireland, instead of in England, 
there would have been more mirth, and more music, and Helen would have been 
more cheerful ; as it was, she would neither sing, dance, nor speak. She sat like 
a beautiful marble statue between her father and her husband ; and, but for the 
flush that passed occasionally over her calm face, she had little of a living being 
about her. Mark loved, and, like all Irishmen, gloried in making a bustle about 
it ; he could not fancy a wedding without much rioting : his gentle bride loved 
also ; though it was not given to him to comprehend the depth or the delicacy 
of her untainted affection. 

But we will, if you please, leave the bride and bridegroom to make their 
arrangements, and conduct their leave taking, after the most approved fashion, 
rejoining them in Ireland, on their landing in the village of Ballyhack ! — Bally- 
hack ! — the dirtiest town — indeed, the only dirty town — of our county ; the very 
emporium of lean pigs, bad butter, and unclad beggars ! 

Helen had, therefore, an ill example of Ireland, and certainly did think it 
must be a wretched country ; but, when ascending the hill that opens a view of 
Lord Templemore’s house on one side, and the beautiful scenery around Dun- 
brody Abbey on the other, she changed her opinion, and expressed her delight 
at the improving prospect. “ Och ! wait till we get home, Helen ! and though 
you musn’t think to find all like in England, yet you ’ll soon be able to make it 
so.” This was easier said than done. Poor Helen! — silently and patiently 
did she toil; and, to do Mark justice, he aided all her undertakings, in open 
defiance of the sneers of the entire parish, with very few exceptions. Helen’s 


254 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


calmness was called pride, and her exact neatness was a positive reproof to the 
slovenly habits of the uncultivated peasantry; and here I think it right to 
mention, lest there should be any mistake about the matter, that she was not 
fortunate enough at that time to be a resident exactly in Bannow. Mark had 
wisely taken his cottage at a good space from his mother’s dwelling, for he 
knew that the friendship of relatives, brought up so differently, increases with 
distance. They resided in the vicinity of the “ Seven Castles of Clonmines” — a 
remarkable, and peculiarly interesting locality on the other side of “ the Scar” 
— dim records of a gone-by history — early structures raised by the first Eng- 
lish conquerors, to keep the possessions they had gained by the sword, and 
control the “ mere Irish.” Matty, his youngest brother, was often with them, 
and he improved much by the wise precepts and uniformly good example of his 
new sister ; but Helen’s greatest torment was a fault-finding, pains-taking (as 
far as making mischief went) old maid, the chronicle, and scandalous magazine 
of the county. Nobody liked her, and everybody tolerated her, for the simple 
reason why every gossip finds a welcome — because she was full, brimfull, of 
news and scandal. The parish had a little occasional rest when “Judy Maggs,” 
as she was called, pursued her vocation of carder, and wandered from county 
to county in search of employment ; but, unfortunately, her only brother died 
at sea, and left her in possession of “ a good penny o’ money,” so that, at the 
period to which I allude, she might be considered only as an amateur carder. 
She was chiefly occupied in investigating and meddling in everybody’s business, 
within five miles of her dwelling ; not that she objected to long journeys : she 
has gone three times in a week to Waterford, a distance of seventeen miles, to 
find if Katey Turner’s gown really cost two shillings and eight-pence per yard ; 
and no one can deny that she was not well repaid for her trouble, when she 
ascertained it to be an absolute fact, that the little gipsy got it a dead bargain 
at two and six. She went messages for every one, from those of the squire’s 
house, to the mud cabin of blind Peggy O’Rooney ! Nothing came amiss to 
her in that w.ay ; she might be termed, in the exercise of walking, a most won- 
derful woman, a universal carrier, from a whisper to an “ established fact.” 

“ Why, then, Mrs. Connor, ma’am,” said she, one morning, addressing Helen, 
who, as usual, was setting her house in order, “ will ye be afther telling us what 
the young masther is ploughing the ould wheat-field for ?” 

“ To sow flax in, Judy.” 

“ That’s English, asthore !— sure, poorer land nor that ’ud do for flax — where 
did he larn to throw flax into sich rich soil?” 

“ In the Netherlands, I have heard, they never sow flax except in good soil ; 
and you know the best linen comes from that country.” 

“ I ax your pardon civilly, Mrs. Connor, ma’am — as if I didn’t know all relat- 
ing to the seed, breed, and generation of all the flax in the world wide ! Oh ! 
wirrasthrew ! — to even that to me ! — the Nitherlands ! what is they to the North, 
in regard o’ linen-makin ?” 

Gentle Helen Connor had enough to do to appease the angry dame, who. as a 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


255 


professional carder, was thought omnipotent in all flax questions ; and she had at 
length got her into good humour, when Mark’s brother, unfortunately, entered 
and introduced a new subject of contention. 

“ Now that the reaping is over, Matty,” said Helen, “ I hope you will bind 
and stook the crop at once, not leave it on the ledge, as you did last year — 
I think it will rain — at all events it may; and it is better to be on the safe 
side.” 

“ Bind and stook the crap, afore a body has time to turn round !” exclaimed 
Judy — “ Och hone ! that ’s another English fashion, I suppose — or, may-be it ’s 
from the Niverlands !— wouldn’t to-morrow T , or the day afther, do for that? I'll 
go bail for the weather — sorra a good in doing things in a hurry !” 

Helen made no further remark, and Matty promised, in open defiance of Judy 
Maggs, to see that the corn was bound and stooked immediately. “ But what I 
came in for, principally, Helen,” said he, “ was to tell you that the pig is laid out 
ready for burning in the barn.” 

“Burning in the barn!” echoed Judy, starting from her seat: “and are 
pigs so plinty with ye, that ye mean to burn ’em, and so many poor crathurs 
starving? Och, that I should live to see such fashions! Good mornin’! — 
good mornin’ to ye, Mistress Mark Connor ! — and God sind ye better sense, 
and a little more Christianity! — burn a pig! Och, my grief !” — Judy Maggs 
stood no further question, but trotted off, eager to communicate to her neigh- 
bours the melancholy intelligence, that Mark Connor’s English wife “ wint so 
far with her notions as to make jire-wood of a pig !” On her journey, it was 
her misfortune, or rather, considering her love of tattle, her good fortune, to 
encounter Mister Blaney O’Doole, the parish carpenter, who was seated on the 
car that, turned on end, served as a gate to stop the gap leading to the short 
cut to old Mrs. Connor’s dwelling. Blaney was a short, thick-set man, who, all 
over the world, would be recognized as a real Emeralder. “ Good morrow, 
Mr. Blaney,” said she. “ Good morrow to ye, kindly, ma’am,” said he. 
“ What’s stopping ye, sir?” said she. “ Why, thin I ’ll tell ye ma’am, dear, if 
ye ’ll give me time,” said he, “but it’s yerself was always the devil afther the 
news — though sorra a much ’s stirrin’ — but I ’m waitin’ to take the stone out o’ 
my brogue, that ’ud never ha’ got there, only for the bla'gardly way they made 
the new road. What could the country expect from the presintment overseer, 
and he a Connaught man ? Didn’t I see him with the sight o’ my eyes, after 
bargaining with Tim Dacey to take tinpence a day, and a shilling allowed by 
the county (and paid too)— didn’t I see him give poor Tim the full hire with 
one hand, and take back the odd pence (that weren’t pence but pounds) with 
the other ! so that, if called, he could make oath, with a safe conscience , that 
he ped the whole.” “That’s a good story, faith!” replied Judy, laughing, and 
losing all feeling of the roguery of the transaction in the amusement occasioned 
by its cleverness, — “but hardly as smart as one that I had the sight of my eyes 
for, up in the county Kilkenny, as good as tin years agone,— when a man— a 
gentleman, they called him — got a presintment to mend a piece of a road; and 


256 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


what does he, but lays the notes down along — along — iver so far on the bare 
ground o’ the highway, and then picks them up — claps thim into his pocket — 
walks off to the nixt grand jury — and makes affidavit, that * he laid the money 
out upon the road.'-^- But is it manners to ax where ’ud ye be going wid yer bag 
full o’ tools V 9 

“ I ’m jist stepping down to Mark Connor’s, to get the morral of a new 
barrow with two wheels, that he wants made, and that he says is powerful good 
for all sorts and manner o’ work. I wonder he didn’t get it done of iron, like 
the cart he brought over, which cost him a good five guineas, and I could ha’ 
made him one of wood twice as big for three.” 

“ Of iron, agra!” repeated Judy. 

“ Ay, astore !” replied the carpenter, “ and so much wood in the country ; 
wasn’t it a sin ? How grand he is, to be sure, as if the sort o’ cars his neigh- 
bours have wasn’t good enough for him !” 

“ Thrue for ye — that ’s a thrue word ; — but I could tell ye more than that ; 
pigs are so plenty with them, that his fine English madam of a wife, at this very 
minute, is burnin’ a pig in the barn.” 

It was now the carpenter’s turn to be astonished. 

“ Burnin’ a pig ! — O, thin, for what !” 

“For what!” said Judy, a little puzzled ; “ why thin it’s myself that can’t tell 
exactly,” she replied ; “ only for sport, as I could make out, or for fire- wood 
may-be !” 

“ Holy Mother !” ejaculated the astonished man of chips, and wended on 
his way ; while Judy called after him, “ Find out for me the good o’ burnin’ a 

Pig-” 

The evening of this day was a very pleasant and cheerful one in Mark Con- 
nor’s kitchen. A neat white cloth w 7 as spread on a clean deal table ; there 
was a small square carpet laid over the centre of the floor ; and the tin and 
copper vessels on and under the dresser were brightly burnished ; the fire cer- 
tainly appeared almost as if made on the hearth, but, in fact, it was burning in 
a very low grate, that had both hobs and a trivet ; and at each side of the 
capacious chimney were stuffed settles, neatly made, and comfortable. On one 
of these, Mark w r as stretched at full length; the other was occupied by Matty 
and Blaney O’Doole ; and Helen w 7 as endeavouring to convince a wild, but 
good-humoured looking serving girl, that a gridiron ought to be kept clean, 
and was much fitter to do a pork griskin on, that was crying, like Kilkenny 
fowls, “ Come, eat me — come, eat me,” than the kitchen tongs that the lassie 
had extended on the fire for the purpose, although the gridiron w 7 as just as 
easy to get at. 

The cloth, as I have said, was laid, and the supper in active preparation, 
when in walked old Mrs. Connor. Now, let people be ever so much inclined 
to find fault — let them be in ever so bad a humour, there is something almost 
irresistibly soothing in a group of smiling, happy faces, and a well-regulated 
apartment. I care not whether it be in a palace or a cottage ; a wooden chair 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


257 


may be as well placed as one of gold and damask ; and if a youth is wooingly 
disposed towards any damsel, as he values his happiness, let him follow my 
advice ; — call on the lady when she least expects him, and take note of the 
appearance of all that is under her control. Observe if the shoes fit neatly — 
if the gloves are clean, and the hair well polished. And I would forgive a man 
for breaking off an engagement, if he discovered a greasy novel hid away under 
the cushion of a sofa, or a hole in the garniture of the prettiest foot in the 
world. Slovenliness will be ever avoided by a well-regulated mind, as would a 
pestilence. A woman cannot be always what is called dressed , particularly one 
in middling or humble life, where her duty, and, it is consequently to be 
hoped, her pleasure, lie in superintending and assisting in all domestic matters; 
but she may be always neat — well appointed. And as certainly as a virtuous 
woman is a crown of glory to her husband, so surely is a slovenly one a crown 
of thorns. Now, having given what is seldom attended to, gratuitous advice, 
i must proceed to say, that old Mrs. Connor was never particularly sweet or 
gentle in her temper, and as she entered the cottage, according to the Irish 
phrase, Mark wondered “ what was in his mother’s nose now.” When, how- 
ever, Helen took the great corking-pin, out of her mother-in-law’s cloak (which, 
by the way, for want of a string, had torn a large rent in the cloth), and 
placing her gently on the easy settle (a luxury perfectly unknown in the gene- 
rality of Irish cabins), gazed sweetly and calmly in her cranky face, and in- 
quired affectionately after her health, the old lady softened a little, and looked 
around with a less dissatisfied countenance. 

“ Just in time, mother,” said Mark, “ just in time to share our supper ; in- 
deed, Helen had laid by something nice for ye, which Matty was to take over 
to-morrow ; but make yerself comfortable ; and, though it ’s been a busy day 
with us all, yet we’re no ways in confusion.” The old lady had not time to 
reply, when there was a smart knock at the door, and Mark’s cheerful voice 
gave the usual invitation, “Come in, and kindly welcome;” our old friend Judy 
Maggs appeared immediately, and a sort of interchanging glance passed between 
the two ancient dames. 

“ Sure it’s glad I am o’ shelter,” said Judy, taking off her new beaver hat, 
and carefully wiping it with the tail of her gown. 

“Ye don’t mane to say it ’s rainin’ 1” retorted Blaney O’Doole. 

“ Pepperin’ like fun,” replied Judy, “ and so suddent too !” 

“ Och, my grief !— and all my little handful o’ barley, that I had the ill-luck to 
rape as good as a week agone, upon the ledge.” 

“Our’s is safe,” exclaimed Matty, joyfully, “thanks to Helen for it— for 
Mark hasn’t time to look to everything — and sure I ’d ha’ never heeded it, but 
for her.” Helen smiled at her good-natured brother, and it was observed that 
Judy looked particularly confused. 

“ Mark,” said Blaney, “ did ye hear what a shockin’ misfortune happened Mr. 
Clancy ? — sure his crap o’ flax was no crap at all, afther his takin’ three years’ 
33 


258 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


lase of Stoney Knock, thinkin’ ’t would do well enough for flax ; and the agm. 
won’t let him off his bargain.” 

“ Serve him right, I told him how ’t would be,” replied Mark ; “ poor land 
never gave out a good crop yet — jist like people expecting to fatten pigs upon 
green food. I wish your sister Mary was over here, Helen, to teach us how to 
fatten them her way.” 

“ One ’ud think yer father’s son ought to know how to fatten pigs better 
than any one, and he bred, born, and reared, among them,” observed Mrs. Con- 
nor. Poor Helen, for the life of her, could not comprehend Irish metaphor ; 
and she repeated, with a flushed cheek, “ Mark’s father born and reared among 
pigs ! — surely you mistake !” 

“ No mistake in life, Helen ; sure, there ’s myself and his sons to the fore, who 
are proud to own it.” Helen looked to her husband for an explanation, but he 
only laughed. 

“ I don’t understand Irish,” replied Helen, smiling in her turn, “ and I think I 
make many mistakes for that reason.” 

“ I ’ll niver stand to hear any one abuse my English,” said Mrs. Connor, 
angrily ; “ and, Mark, if you can stand to see me turned on afther that fashion, 
by yer wife, I ’ll not — that ’s all.” 

“ Nor I neither,” added the woman of many professions. 

“ Helen ! my Helen, abuse you, mother ! — Helen ! — she never abused either 
you or any one else ; the fact is, she does not understand your Irish , and you 
don’t understand her English ” 

<fi Mark,” interrupted Mrs. Connor, rising hastily, and looking very angry 
and grand, while Judy Maggs, whose figure was little and rotund, crouched 
close beneath the shadow of her elbow, “ Mark, I’ma plain-spoken Irishwoman, 
and your natural mother, and I feel it my duty to tell ye that I don’t like yer 
goings on ; I ’d scorn to say a thing behind yer back, for I ’m neither a flea, a 
fly, nor a Connaught man, but I tell you to your face that I do not like yer 
outlandish ways. Now, Helen, I don’t want to make ye cry, girl; and ye 
needn’t interrupt me, Mark, for I ’ll say my say, and be done wid it. In the 
first place, Helen, it was not manners, the day my brother Hacket called on 
you, out o’ civility, on his way from the fair, for you to mix wather wid the 
drop o’ whiskey ye handed him ; and, whin he drank the trashy stuff, ye hadn’t 
the dacency to fill him another sup, but says, ‘ Will you take a little more ? — 
may-be, ye ’d rather not V — Was that the way (I ’d lave it to judge and jury) to 
trate a relation ?” 

“ Mother,” said Helen, “ it was not that ; but indeed Mr. Hacket had taken 
enough before he came here, and I didn’t like ” 

“ That ’s more of it,” interrupted the old lady ; “ I say nothin’ agin his being 
a little merry now and thin, but to talk of his havin’ taken enough ! Oh, to 
think of that bein’ evened to a brother o’ mine \ — but wait ; it ’s only to-day I 
heard that you, Mark, had sint for Jimmy Smith, the mqson, to make a back 
door to yer house. What need has any dacent quiet family like yours, of a back 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 259 

door ? Sure, there ’s no rogues among ye, that ye need a back door to escape 
tnrough ?” 

“ You don’t understand, mother,” said Mark. 

“ I don’t want to understand,” replied the old woman, who had talked herself 
into a belief of all she uttered ; “ I want to spake my mind, and to put a stop to 
yer improvements , as ye call ’em. I wonder ye wouldn’t have more pathriotism 
than to be bringin’ foreign ways into the counthry ! — I ’ll say nothin’ to ye 
about the iron car — Lord save us ! — iron ! — and so much wood to be had for a 
song ! — nor the barrow with two wheels — though my wonder is, where or how 
ye can put two wheels under a barrow ; nor about iron cornstands — and stones 
to be got for nothin’; — but I don’t see why there should be such a set-out o’ tins 
shinin’ about the kitchen ; in my time, two or three things sarved for all — and 
why not? — but it’s my duty I’m doin’, and ” 

“ Don’t forget the pig,” whispered the curious and impatient Judy, raising her- 
self on tiptoe to Mrs. Connor’s ear ; — the old lady seized the idea with avidity : 
“ But may -be, as I understand nothin’,” said she, ironically, “ ye ’d have the 
goodness to Irish me the English of ‘ burnin’ pigs?’” 

“ Burning pigs !” echoed Helen. 

“ Burning pigs !” repeated Mark. 

“ Ay, burnin’ pigs ! — makin’ fire-wood of them !” 

“ I never heard of the like even !” replied Mark, “ not in all my travels.” 

“ Oh, the lies and wickedness of the world !” exclaimed Judy, clasping her 
hands together, and turning up her eyes ; “ and it done here this very day.” 

“ It ’s you that ’s telling lies, Miss Maggs !” exclaimed Mark, eager to vent the 
anger which had been for some time accumulating ; “ it ’s you that ’s telling lies, 
and well I know that ye ’re the mother of lies, and the counthry will never have 
rest or peace, till you, and the likes of ye, are out of it.” 

“ Mould yer tongue, Mark !” exclaimed Mrs. Connor, “ for it ’s the truth 
Judy’s tellin’. Speak up, Judy, didn’t ye see Matty and Helen both set fire to a 
live pig ?” 

Helen looked perfectly astonished, while Matty swore and protested that 
he had never done, or even thought of, such a thing in his whole life : the wind 
changed, and Judy, who (owing, it is to be presumed, to the imaginative organ 
being frequently called into action, and, consequently, acquiring considerable 
vigour), having certainly enlarged the report, after the fashion of all approved 
story-tellers ; Judy found it somewhat awkward to be brought to facts : and, 
as a dernier ressort , denied having ever used the word “ live.” Old Mrs. Connor 
continued positive in her first assertion ; and, at all events, after much bitter 
bandying of many words, the scene closed, upon old Mrs. Connor and Judy 
Maggs quitting Mark’s cottage, at variance with its inmates and each other; 
while poor Helen, leaning her head against the wall, was weeping bitterly, and 
even Mark appeared worried and out of temper. 

Mark Connor was anything but weak ; and, yet, being seriously angry with 
his mother, and the gossiping sisterhood in general, he did not kiss the tears from 


260 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


Helen’s cheek, his customary mode of chasing the sorrowing tokens away, but 
in no very gentle tone said, “Ye’d better leave off crying, Helen; — women’s 
tongues and women’s tears are always. ready when not wanted.” 

« I seldom trouble you with my tears, Mark,” replied Helen, perhaps a little, 
leetle , pettishly. 

“ You ’ve seldom reason, Helen.” 

“ I am not saying I have.” 

“ But I say you have not.” 

Helen was silent — unjustly so, perhaps — but it was a slight indication of 
woman’s temper, and Mark was in no humour to put up with it. 

“ I say you have not, nor never have had since you have been my wife.” 

The remembrance of his mother’s rudeness, and Judy Maggs’s vulgarity, was 
fresh upon her mind, and she ejaculated — 

“ Mark ! Mark ! how can you say so 1” 

“ Oh, very well !” replied the husband, “ very well ! I suppose the first tale 
you tell your father, and he coming over next week, will be — ‘ how ill I have 
used you 1” 

Helen was again silent, and her calm features assumed somewhat the expres- 
sion of sulkiness. 

“ Do you mean to tell your father that 1 have used you ill V 9 reiterated Mark, 
raising his voice at the same time. 

Helen’s tears flowed afresh, and she sobbed, “ You never did till now.” 

It was very unfortunate for both Mark and Helen that others were wit- 
nesses to this first difference; for had they been alone, Mark’s pride, and 
Helen’s too, would have given way ; but, as it was, neither would make the 
first advance towards reconciliation, and Mark swore a wicked oath, consigning 
all women to the care of a certain unmentionable black gentleman ; and ended 
his pretty speech by muttering certain words ; their import being that he wished 
he had never married an Englishwoman. This was the unkindest cut of all. 
Helen, now really angry with her husband, and justly hurt at his unkindness, 
left the kitchen with the air of an offended princess, and the cooking to the 
little serving maiden, who performed it most sadly. “ I ’ll not stay supper, 
thankee, Mark,” said Blaney O'Doole, who had wisely forborne all interference 
in a most wnlrish way, rising as he spoke, and stroking his “ cawbeen” with the 
open palm of his hand, “ I ’ll not stay supper, I thankee kindly, all the same, 
but I ’ll go home ; only, Mark, if I had swore that way at Misthress Blaney 
O’Doole, my wife, you know, I wouldn’t be in a whole skin now, that ’s all ; good 
night, and God be wid ye !” 

“ I ’ll go to bed, Mark,” said Matty, “ I ’m very tired : only, Mark, asthore ! 
don’t be hard upon Helen; sure, ye know, the English are finer-like than us, 
and I saw her lip shake whin you swore so at her ; and, indeed, I can’t help 
thinkin’ our place a dale nicer than any one else’s ; she does bother about it to 
be sure, and is horrid partiklar, but she ’s gentle-hearted, and gave me such a 
beautiful green silk Barcelona for Sunday, and says she ’ll give me a silver 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


261 

watch whin I ’m fifteen ; — don’t be cruel, Mark ; do you know that when I’ma 
man, I ’ll marry an Englishwoman !” And off went Matty, but not to bed ; he 
left his brother sitting stubbornly at supper, his elbows resting on the table, 
and his face resting on his hands. “ He ’s in one of his sulks,” thought the 
good-natured boy, as he stole round the gable-end of the house to his sister- 
in-law’s bed-room window, “ and, if they ’re long coming, they are desperate 
long goin’ ! I ’ll see if I can’t coax Helen to go and make it up with him ; 
and I ’ll find some way to punish that meddlesome ould woman — for it was all 
of her that my mother was stirred up for a battle to-night — as if Mark hadn’t 
a right to his own way!” These thoughts brought Matty Connor to the 
little window that was curtained on the outside by the leaves of some fine 
geraniums, Helen’s own particular plants ; he peeped through the foliage, and 
saw Helen, her eyes still red with weeping, turning over the leaves of the small 
Bible (it had been her father’s parting gift), as she sat at the little neat dressing- 
table. 

“ Helen ! Helen !” said he, softly, “ Helen, avourneen ! don’t fret, dear, but 
jist make friends wid Mark ; the natur’ of us Irish, you know, is hasty and hot ; 
but, sure, Mark loves ye (and good reason he has) more than his heart’s blood, 
and it ’s proud he is to have an English wife ; sure it was only this mornin’ he 
owned so, and he guidin’ the plough ; when Mister Rooney, the man with the 
big farm, said that this house was a pattern to the country-side, ‘ It ’s my wife I 
may thank for it,’ made answer my brother, as well he might.” 

“ For your mother to accuse me of burning a live pig !” said Helen, indig- 
nantly. 

“ Helen, dear ! I know what that was owin’ to ; that blunderin’, ould, 
wizzen-faced, go-by-the-ground, Judy Maggs, who, whin I tould ye the pig 
was ready for burnin’ in the barn (meanin’, you know, that it was ready to 
have the hair singed off, the Hampshire way, for bacon, instead of bein’ scalded 
our w r av), was all in a fuss to know what I was afther : I was no way inclined 
to gratify her curosity ; don’t you mind, I mean rimimber, what a lantin’ puff 
she set off in this very mornin’ about it V ’ 

Helen sighed, and thought, as everybody else thinks who attempts to im- 
prove Ireland, that the beginning is difficult, if not dangerous — c’est le premier 
pas qui coute. “ But you ’ll make it up with Mark, Helen ; poor fellow ! there 
he is sitting by himself, and the fire out, and Biddy spoilt the supper entirely — 
sorra a bit he ’s eat.” 

“ Not eat any supper !” repeated Helen, slowly looking up. 

“ Not as much as ’ud fill a mite’s eye ! — and Helen,” added the cunning rogue, 
“ he had a hard day’s work, and wasn’t over well.” 

Helen turned over the leaves of the little book, then closed and pushed it 
gently from her. 

“ Good night, dear Matty — don’t forget your prayers — good night.” 

Matty had an intuitive knowledge of woman’s heart, which it puzzles many a 


262 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


philosopher to acquire, so he only murmured a — “ God bless you !” and with- 
drew, thinking slyly to himself, “ that ’ill bring her round, any way.” 

Soon, very soon after, a small, gentle hand lifted the latch of the kitchen 
door ; presently, Helen’s face appeared at the opening, sweet, but serious. 
Mark pretended to be both deaf and blind — he still retained his position — and, 
though she advanced into the kitchen, he moved not. Helen’s pride and her 
affection wrestled for a moment within her, but the woman triumphed; she 
threw her arms round his neck, and looked affectionately in his face ; it was 
enough — “ there was naebody by,” so Mark compromised his dignity, and the 
past was forgotten. I do believe this was the last, as I know it to have been 
the first, quarrel that followed Mark Connor’s wooing and wedding. It was a 
long time before Judy Maggs found out the real meaning of Helen’s burning 
the pig ; and, indeed, she would never have been perfectly enlightened on the 
subject, but for Helen’s good-nature, who sent her a portion of the “ burnt” 
flitch, as a make-up for Mark’s bluntness, he having forbidden her the house ; 
a course that all who loved peace speedily adopted likewise. The most obsti- 
nate disciples of old customs in time saw the advantage of Mark’s farming 
improvements ; his flax was the finest in the county ; his corn was always 
stacked in time ; his bacon the best ever tasted ; and even his mother confessed 
the superiority of the two-wheeled barrow. The back door, I fear, was always 
regarded as a sad innovation, notwithstanding the proof of its being the means 
of keeping the front one clean. Helen’s housekeeping, even, after a long trial, 
received its due meed of praise, though I fear that her husband’s family was 
the last to award it ; — the “ cry of the country” obliged them to do so at length, 
and then, as Mark himself said, “ The deuce thank them for it.” He was wise 
in suffering, after that night, no interference ; and the greatest triumph Helen 
experienced was when old Mrs. Connor not only requested her receipt to make 
plum-pudding, but actually begged her to go to her house to make it — a tacit 
acknowledgment of her superiority. 

About four years after her marriage, when her father came to see her for the 
second time, as he walked down the garden to her little flower knot, for which 
he had brought some rare bulbs, and held her little boy (a rosy, “ potato-faced” 
fellow) by the hand — who amused himself by breaking his grandfather’s pipe 
into short pieces, an operation that was not perceived by either grandpapa or 
mother — the following conversation took place between them : 

“ I confess, Helen, I feared you would never be so happy as you appear. I 
never doubted Mark’s kindness — but really the people are so careless ” 

“ Yet good-natured,” said Helen, smiling. 

“ So insincere.” 

“ Not so, father, they always mean to perform what they promise ; but they 
are, I confess, too apt to promise beyond their means” 

“ So passionate.” 

“ But so forgiving.” 

“ So extravagant.’ 


THE WOOING AND WEDDING. 


263 






“ So very hospitable.” 

“ So averse to English settlers.” 

“ About as much as we are to Irish ones.” 

“ Averse to improvement, then.” 

“ Not when convinced in what improvement consists.” 

“ Helen, do you know it is very hard to convince an Irishman ; he has so 
many quips, and cranks, and puzzling sayings, and would prefer being reduced 
to expedient, to attaining anything by straightforward means — provided it was 
not too troublesome.” 

“ There is truth in all that,” replied Helen, thoughtfully, “ and no good will 
ever be effected by flying in the face of their prejudices ; they are a people that 
must be led, not driven. Preconceived ideas cannot be hammered out of their 
heads — but they may be directed to other objects ; though you cannot stop the 
source of a river, you may turn its course ; — but yonder is Mark’s uncle, Mr. 
Hacket, coming to see you. I must not forget to give him a bumper of whiskey ; 
not ask him, ‘Would he rather not? which once got me into a terrible scrape. 
Dear father, farewell for a little time ; and, if nothing else reconciles you to Ire- 
land, remember it was Mark’s wooing, and the wedding which followed, that 
made your Helen happy.” 




THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 



E of Wexford, though we have the advantage of 
our neighbours’ mountains, as terminations to our 
landscape, have but one that we can call our own 
— the mountain of Forth. I cannot, with all my 
love for it, style it handsome ; though it is, certainly, 
picturesque — rugged, jagged, rough, and rocky: 
and I remember when not a single green field, or 
cultivated plot, was to be seen on its sides. It has 
undergone changes. 

Year after year I have watched patches of oats, 
potatoes, and even barley, creeping along, and 
civilizing its sturdy steeps ; while, both in sheltered 
and unsheltered spots, cottages have sprung up — 
cottages, filled with a bold race of mountain “ squat- 
ters,” who, I hope, may never be dispossessed of 
jS the R estates” obtained by their industry. 

I have spent some happy, sunny hours on the rocks of my own dear moun- 
tain, looking round and round, and climbing from crag to crag, to recognise the 

\ * f264) 


THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 


265 

dwellings that shelter in the valley. There is Johnstown Castle, embedded in 
its own woods — the gaily-waving flag on its highest tower, intimating that those 
who “ possess the land,” are at home, bestowing blessings on all around them ! 

I can see the curling smoke from the trim school-house, and fancy Mr. Shelly’s, 
the good master’s face, pale and anxious, lest his pupils’ improvement should 
not keep pace with the wishes of his liberal patroness. There go the mottled 
deer, in the noble park, scudding right over the mound where that everlast- 
ing Oliver Cromwell is said to have reviewed his troops ; there, the labourers’ 
cottages, clustered like honeycombs in the thrifty hive. All look happy and 
cheerful, and are what they appear. The spire of the little church of Rathas- 
peck is clearly defined by the blue sky ; I can see the ruins in the park, and the 
stream, like a silver thread, where the mill’s revolving wheel turns it into mimic 
foam 

There, and there, and there, are the dwellings of resident landlords, or pros- 
perous landholders, mingled with the venerable castles, which form so distin- 
guished and interesting a feature in the character of the county : — what a fine 
foreground they form to St. George’s Channel — bearing upon its waters the pro- 
duce of many lands ! 

Wexford Harbour looks well from this noble eminence ; and it is impossible 
not to regret that the ever-shifting sands form such a barrier to the utility of so 
beautiful an object. 

How snugly the Barony of Forth farmers shelter in their comfortable houses ! 
— their barns are spacious, and their hayricks and cornstacks tell of abundance. 
The Saltee Islands stand fearlessly amid the dashing waves — and the far-off 
Tower of Hook terminates the sea view. 

It is a noble scene ; and yet, even as the tiny bird seeks its own nest amid the 
varied beauties of the grove, so do I seek the white gables and green trees of 
my childhood’s home. Well, I need look no longer; it is but to close my eyes, s 
and now it is before me — all — I can recall the chiming dinner-bell — the dear 
familiar voices — passed for ever — all — even the old house dog’s bay— that roused 
the echoes of that wild sea-shore ! 

My own dear home! — What home can ever feel like the sweet home of 
childhood ? 

I love the mountain huts, and their hardy occupiers; I love to see them 
descending into the valleys to their daily labour, and climbing to their homes 
at night, shouting to each other, or chorusing some wild Irish ditty, while their 
children leap from crag to crag to meet them. I do not like to hear them 
sneered at — as they often are — by their lowland rivals. I own they may be a 
little unpolished — perhaps, fond of having their own way — and I know their man- 
ners are more brusque than the manners of the men of the plain ; they deem them- 
selves independent freeholders — and so they are ; and they receive you with 
warm hospitality in their cottages, if you brave their mountain air, as I have 
frequently done — to visit them. 

Squatters, from every barony in the county , have fixed themselves upon 
34 


} 


266 


THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 


the mountain, and do not relish people of any other county intruding among 
them : how they existed at first I cannot tell ; a family must have made the poor 
man’s individual labour keep them all from starving ; but now, every year, I can 
perceive bit after bit added to their little “ properties and the eagerness 
with which they send their children to school, and the interest many of them 
take in agriculture, lead me to hope that the next generation will be of real 
value to the country. I am always doubtful as to whether an improvement 
will be adopted if it be only practised in a gentleman’s domain ; the people are 
apt to say, “ It may do for the quality — but not for us but the moment one 
cottager tries a new plan, and it succeeds, his poor neighbours are anxious to 
adopt it also. “ I never would have believed,” said John Merry — old John 
Merry, who is the best dog-breaker, and mountain cottier, in the county — 
“ that the green crop plan was a good one for the poor , if I had not seen how 
well Mr. Pigeon of the Red-houses managed it.” John Merry is one of the first 
mountain “ settlers.” “ I ’m as good as a grandfather to the mountain,” says 
John, “ for I was one of the first that sat down on it — a young man, with a dark- 
haired wife — and every hair in her head is white now.” 

“ It must have been a lonesome place then, John.” 

“ Faix, it was mighty lonesome and quair; and shy the birds and foxes looked 
at ns — as if they thought we ’d no right to it — natural enough ; and as to the 
snipes, when they came back after their divarshun abroad, ye ’d think the wee 
black eyes would drop out of their heads at seeing the curling smoke, and smell- 
ing the burning turf on their own lands ! Well, I ’ve often thought what a won- 
der it was, how the birds in the air found the road in the heavens to wherever 
they wanted to go ; and I ’ve asked every larned gentleman I ever came across, 
how it was, and never a one of them could tell me ; — it ’s mighty strange,” 
added John, “but somehow, about the growing of a blade of grass, or the flying 
of a bird — the learned people know as little as a poor man.” 

John is a regular specimen of a mountaineer — fearless, free, daring, and 
very superstitious, as all mountaineers are ; it would be utterly impossible to 
invent a story of fairy or spirit beyond his belief. He glories in the mountain, 
and wonders if the “ far off ones” look as well when you get near them as 
his own. He says it is a noble thing to have the “ main ocean” always before a 
man’s eyes, rowling away at his feet — that it makes him think of Eternity ; and 
as for the dogs, the mountain air and education are the best to strengthen them 
in wind and limb. He will show you potatoes not larger than walnuts, and 
tell you that, though they ’re not big of their age, they ’re as dry as bread, and 
the wholesomest that ever grew ; and a little patch of green stunted oats will, 
he assures you, be prime corn before the season’s over. John, heaven bless 
him ! makes the best of everything, and looks so cheerful in his coat, which is 
composed half of tatters, half of patches, that you feel assured the luxuries of 
life would be thrown away upon him ; he will wipe his face after it has been 
battered by a hail-storm, and smilingly assure you it is “ no ways un- 
wholesome.” I was told that John “had” a fine “legend” of the mountain — 


THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 


267 


if he would tell it to me ; but that he feared I would laugh at it : promising to 
keep my countenance, and to listen attentively, I prevailed on him to “ show 
me the nature of it.” “ If your honour will only just walk up some morning, 
and see the grey rocks that mark the place, and prove there ’s no deception in 
it whatever ; there ’s the very stones over the hole, as they were in the ancient 
times — and if ye remove them rocks, you may find it yourself, though, to be 
sure, if ye did, you ’d meet with present death.” 

“ Couldn’t they be blown up, John V 9 

“Well, there now, I knew it’s laughing at me you’d be,” he said, looking 
seriously displeased. 

“ Indeed, John, I ’ve not laughed.” 

“ Sure, ma’am, it ’s all one, if you talk of blowing up ; the powder ’s not made 
that would blast them rocks,” added John. 

“ Indeed !” I said, gravely : and John, after peering very suspiciously at me, 
bade me good morning. But I soon found my way to his mountain home — no 
very easy undertaking, though the path he declared to be both “ smooth and 
wholesome.” Seated on a fragment of stone, a few days after, while John 
eaned on his staff, and every now and then recalled to his side the half puppies, 
half dogs, that constituted his retinue, John confided to me “ The Legend of the 
Mountain of Forth,” which I give in his own language : — 

“ Long ago,” he began, “ before that thieving villain of the world, Oliver 
Cromwell, bombarded Wexford, reviewed his Ironsides in Johnstown-park, or 
left his ould boots behind him in the town he ill-treated — long before all this, 
there lived, somewhere up here, a little morsel of a man, with a white head, 
and a dale in it, by the name of Martin Devereux. White Martin, he was 
called, to distinguish him from every other of the Martins ; and they called 
him so, because his hair was white, you see. Well, White Martin was a 
cunning hand, entirely, you understand, ma’am, in gathering the mountain 
dew ; and whoever wanted it in the valley, used to tip the word to Martin ; 
and be it much or be it little, they were sure of it — pure and fresh, the rale 
sort, brewed under the moonbeam, that neither sun nor gauger had ever 
winked at 1” 

“ The gauger !” I repeated. 

“ Ay, just the gauger ! Sure Queen Elizabeth brought them in first ; and, 
for the matter of that, I ’ve heard my mother say, that ‘ the ould sarpent in the 
garden of Aden was nothing but a gauger in disguise.’ Well, Martin Devereux 
had made a bargain with the good people, what the quality call fairies, who had 
their bits of stations and divarshuns on the mountain, that he ’d not only let them 
alone nor suffer mortal eye to look at them, but that he ’d give them as 
much of the mountain dew as they ’d want for their entertainments, if they ’d 
have an eye to his interests, you understand, and not let any of the wrong sort 
come upon White Martin’s bits of stills, or little hiding-holes ; and, to be sure, 
if the royal family of the good people had fun before they were introduced to 
Martin, they had ten times the divarshun after, because of the spirits he put into 


268 


THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 


them — the whiskey. There was more fun and flirting in the fairy court, than 
ever was known before.” 

“ And was there no fighting, John ?” I inquired. 

“ See that !” exclaimed John, triumphantly, “ I knew how you ’d ask that. 
Well, indeed, my mother said they used to kick up a bobbery now and 
again, about one thrifle or another ; but they were more prudent about it than 
poor mortals, like ourselves. Now 7 , no one ever did a wiser thing than make 
friends with the good people ; if you ’re churning, it ’s no great matter to leave 
a drop of cream in the keeler, or a taste of fresh butter on the churn, for the 
innocent things; and, if you’ve nothing else to leave, why, leave a peeled 
potato on the hearth-stone, that has never touched salt, and they take the 
will for the deed ; it ’s the thoughtfulness they look to, and you ’ll have all the 
better luck for it. Now you see, ma’am (it ’s the rale truth I ’m telling 
you), the whole county was fairly riddled with excisemen, and gaugers, and 
informers, and the like — every little thing that could brew the poor Paddy’s 
delight, was seized throughout the country, except White Martin’s : he ’d lay 
down to sleep in the thick of stills, and everything else ; the gauger would 
come and walk over them — ay, may-be, into the whiskey — and neither see it 
nor smell it.” 

“ Oh, John ! is that possible V 9 

“ Possible ! Don’t I tell your honour what my mother told me, and sure it 
isn’t misdoubting her, or me, you ’d be ? — it ’s as thrue as that the sun is now 
shining on that smoky steam-boat. Oh, then, the sea has never looked the same 
since they came on it, dirty things — thrue? Well, they’d walk into it, as 1 
tell you, and the deception the good people would put before them, would 
blind the sight in their ugly eyes, and they ’d walk out again, and thrash the 
informer for misleading them. Ever, and always, after that, the hulabaloo 
that would be in the poor man’s place would delight your ears ! — such music l 
and always they ’d have the same piper ; and my own great-grandmother was 
up in the mountain, one night, helping White Martin and his niece, he having 
a great venture entirely of the dew ; and, trusting to the power, as well he 
might, that had freed him from all trouble so long, he drew up his hogshead 
through a trap-door, at the back of his cabin, and gathered some blankets over 
it, like a tent, and filled it with poteen, ready to draw off for the neighbours, 
the vale-boys, that would be up for it before day ; and the two, my great- 
grandmother, and White Martin’s niece, got ready some ducks and chickens 
for the Saturday market ; and the whole of them, trusting in the good people, 
went peaceably to bed, my great-grandmother sleeping with the old man’s 
niece. 

“ In the thickness of the night, who should knock at the door but the 
gauger ! * Come in, and welcome,’ says a voice, the very moral of White 
Martin’s, while he lay shaking like an ague,— ‘come in; and thankful we will 
be to see any good creature, for we’re all at the last gasp with the small-pox.’ 
Well, my great-grandmother was like to die with the fright, and the ’ cuteness 


THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 


269 

of the good people, for the gauger was a beauty , and would as soon have put 
his head in a fiery furnace, as into where the small-pox was going. Well, in 
his hurry to be off, he clattered down the mountain like a troop of wild horses ; 
and then, from behind the hogshead, came such a hurraing and shillooing, that 
the two girls were mad to steal out to see who it was made the noise ; and then, 
to tempt them more, came the finest of music ; and they forgot White Mar- 
tin’s bargain with the good people, and both stole out, and, looking round 
the hogshead, they saw a responsible looking piper, playing away for the dear 
life — a little, round-faced fellow, piping like mad ; and they could have looked 
at him all night, only that Martin Devereux pulled them away, whispering 
about his agreement to let the good people come and go without observation ; 
but the curosity of the women had destroyed White Martin’s luck; for the 
piper spied them, and such a hoorishing and whirling as there was, you never 
heard ; and, all of a suddent, a voice says — 

* Your bond ’s out, White Martin — 

Your bond ’s out, for sartin.’ 

“ The next night, not content with leaving the good people’s allowance, 
he made them some punch — hot, strong, and sweet; but, no: in the morn- 
ing sorra a drop was touched, and there stood the hogshead — not one of 
the vale-boys but broke their appointment! The old man went and sat 
under his own wall, and, as he sat, who should he see toiling up the moun- 
tain, but the same blaguard gauger ! ‘I’m done now, any way,’ he says 
to himself ; ‘ broke horse and foot, and I ’ll not stir, to save all the poteen that 
ever was brewed,’ he says ; ‘ I ’ll deliver myself peaceably to the tender 
mercies of the law,’ he says, ‘ and that ’s present death, at the very least,’ he 
says ; and so, like some great saint, or martyr, he sticks his dudeen between 
his teeth, with the determination of an ould Roman, and bruises down his 
cawbeen over his eyes, settled, as a haro, to his fate. Now the gauger, that 
was counted such a beauty, was nothing, after all, but a yellow-legged Shel- 
malier— a sporting fellow : one that would take a bribe with one hand, and 
betray you with the other — a bould, daring fellow, hiding his wickedness with 
a brazen face, which half the world mistake for plain dealing ; his heart would 

fit on my thumb-nail ; and his conscience but, as he never found out 

that he had one, I don’t see why posterity should bother about it. If the 
Rogue’s March was played at his funeral, it paid him a compliment. Now 
this gauger had a wife of his own at home, who was, for all the world, like a 
Buddaugh cow — one that goes about with a board on her forehead, to keep her 
from destroying the world ; and, between the pair of them, the country was 
ruined intirely. 

“ Now the Shelmalier was very fond of making love to every girl that would 
let him ; but, above all the girls, the one that hated him most was White 
Martin’s niece; and, while poor ould White Martin had given himself up 
to his pipe and his prayers : — ‘ Keep up,’ says a voice ; ‘ keep a good heart ; 


270 


THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 


though you can’t manage the women, I can manage the men !’■ — and, pushing 
his hat from over his left eye, who should he see by his side, but his own 
niece that frightened the piper, and she dressed up to the nines, smiling 
like a basket of chips, and beckoning to the Shelmalier to make haste up the 
mountain ! 

“ < Get in, you huzzy,’ says the heart-broken craythur ; ‘ where ’s your modest 
bringing up ? — and what ’s come over you at all V — and he made a blow at her 
with vexation. 

“ ‘ Don’t offer to touch me,’ she says, waving her arm above him ; and, sure 
enough, White Martin could no more stir from where he was sitting, than the 
Saltees could move up this ancient ould mountain — ‘ come on,’ she says to the 
Shelmalier gauger ; — ‘ come on, and I’ll show you every tub he has : come on — 
darling.’ 

“ Well, the tears rolled down the poor man’s face, to think his sister’s child 
should ever be so shameless ; but he had no power over himself to speak or 
move. Well, the Shelmalier came on, grinning and smirking; and, sure 
enough, she showed him every hole and corner ; while poor little White Martin 
sat shivering and chattering his bits of teeth, until the dudeen he hadn’t the 
power to remove, was crunched into forty pieces. 

“ ‘ You ’re a beauty,’ he says ; c and upon my honour, you shall be my second 
wife ; but give me a kiss,’ he says, ‘ on account.’ 

“ ‘ Wait till I ’ve earned it,’ makes answer the brazen slut ; * I ’ve only showed 
you the first gathering of his unlawful practices. You think you’ve seen a 
deal ; why, that ’s nothing ; yon is his great hiding-hole !’ and with that she 
points to the very rocks your honour is sitting under at this minute, only they 
weren’t in the same place, but standing quite silent and grand at either side of a 
little cave. 

“‘You don’t mean to say,’ inquires the gauger, ‘that he has more poteen 
there V 

“ ‘ She knows very well !’ shouted White Martin, ‘ that I never was in that 
cave in all my life, because it ’s a blessed ’ 

“ ‘ Will you hold your tongue, if you please, good man V she interrupts, ‘ and 
not disgrace your grey hairs with such lies !’ 

“ ‘ Oh !’ thought the poor man, ‘ how deceitful is the world ! — My own sister’s 
child, that I reared up as my own, and trusted with all I had. in the world, — 
for whom I was adding one halfpenny to another, and who knew no other 
father ; — to turn on me in my old age !’ And the poor old man’s tears flowed 
over his white beard — more for sorrow at the girl’s ingratitude, than the ruin of 
his little property. 

“ She never heeded his trouble, but walked on with the gauger, until just by 
the rocks, there were two or three geese grazing, and they, seeing the gauger 
— (all living birds and beasts know them by what ’s called instinct) — took to 
running, one, one way— another, another, and one flew into the cave. * Follow 
her ! follow her !’ shouts the girl, and so he rushes on, like the March wind, 


THE FAIRY OF FORTH. 


271 


after the goose. ‘Well run I’ she cries; ‘ what handsome legs you have!’ and 
he runs the faster. ‘ Look to the wild goose chase !’ she says again. ‘ Look ! 
look ! look !’ and, while White Martin could hardly see clear for the blind- 
ing tears that gushed from his eyes, he still saw enough to prove that the girl 
stooped, and, snatching up a ‘ bouclawn,’ that grew at her feet, she waved it 
in the air, and, as she did, one rock fell over the other, and closed up the cave, 
as it is closed to this day : — then, turning to White Martin, she waved her hand 
to him, and he started to his feet, and, as he did, his own rale niece stood 
beside him ; and w T hen he looked for her who had taken her shape, she was 
gone !” 

“ And in old times,” I inquired, laying my hand upon one of the stones, which, 
according to Martin, had been so miraculously removed, “ was this a cave, or 
^ a passage V 9 

“ A passage, made by them tarnation thieves of the earth, the Danes, up from 
Ferry Carrig Bridge, under the water ; and that was the fun of it ; for, when 
the goose got to the end of the passage, she swam away ; but some say the 
gauger was drowned, others, that he stuck fast, and is to stick fast in it, to the 
end of the world ; and when the eacho of the wind and thunder is heard from 
the bowels of the earth, about here, there are people that will tell you it ’s the 
sporting gauger, hunting the wild goose ; but I don’t believe that myself all out, 
because,” — added John, with the air of a philosopher, who piques himself upon 
his superior intelligence, — “ because it’s contrary to reason.” 



4*v 





THE RAPPAREE. 


Mi 



RUE for ye, ma’am dear, it is smoking up to the 
nines, sure enough, but it ’s by no manner o’ manes 
unwholesome, more particularly at this season, when 
it ’s so could ; it will clear, my lady, in a painute — see, 
it ’s moving off now.” 

“ Moving up, you mean,” replied the young lady to 
whom this speech was addressed, and whose eye fol- 
lowed the thick and curling smoke that twisted and 
twisted, in serpent-like folds, around the blackened 
rafters of i( Mr. Corney Phelan’s Original Inn,” — so, 
at least, the dwelling was designated by the painted 
board that had once graced it, but now played the part 
of door to a dilapidated pig-sty. Again, another 
volume folded down the chimney, for so the orifice 
was termed, under which the good-tempered and rosy 
Nelly Clarey was endeavouring to kindle a fire, with 
wet boughs and crumbling turf. The maid of the inn knelt before the unmanage- 
able combustibles, fanning the flickering flame with her apron, or puffing it with 

( 272 ) 


. 






//> . 

vv /v/ 






Vv 





















THE RAPPAREE. 


273 

her breath ; the bellows, it is true, lay at her side, but it was bereft of nose 
and handle. “ Poor thing,” she said, compassionately, “ it wasn’t in it ’s na* 
tur to last for ever; and sure, master’s grandmother bought it as good as thirty 
years ago, at the fair of Clonmel, as a curosity, more nor anything else, as I 
heard say.” 

“ Are you sure,” interrogated the young lady, after patiently submitting to be 
smoke-dried for many minutes— “ are you sure that the flue is clear ?” 

“ Is it clear, my lady ! Why, then, bad cess to me for not thinking of that 
before! — sure I’ve good right to remember thim devils o’ crows making their 
nesteens in the chimbley ; and it ’s only when the likes o’ you and yer honour- 
able father stop at the inn, that we light a fire in this place at all.” 

She took up the wasting candle, that was stuck in a potato, in lieu of a can- 
dlestick, and, placing a bare but well-formed foot on a projecting embrasure 
near the basement, dexterously catching the huge beam that crossed the chim- 
ney with her disengaged hand, swung herself half up the yawning cavern, 
without apparently experiencing any inconvenience from the dense atmosphere. 
After investigating for some time, “ Paddy Dooley ! — Paddy Dooley !” she 
exclaimed, “ come here, like a good boy, wid the pitchfork, till we make way 
for the smoke.” 

“ I can’t, Nelly honey,” replied Mister Paddy from a shed that was erected 
close to the “ parlour” window, “ arn’t I striving to fix a bit of a manger, that 
his honour’s horses may eat their hay, and beautiful oats, dacently, what they ’re 
accustomed to — but Larry can go.” 

“ Larry, avourneen !” said Nelly, in a coaxing tone, “ do lend us a hand here 
wid the pitchfork.” 

“ It ’s quare manners of ye, Nelly, — a dacent girl like ye, to be asking a gen- 
tleman like me for his hand (Larry, it . must be understood, was the bocher and 
wit of the establishment), and I trying for the dear life to rason wid this ould 
lady, and make her keep in the sty ; she ’s nosed a hole through the beautiful 
sign.” 

“ Bad luck to ye both !” ejaculated Ellen, angrily ; “ I’ 11 tell the masther, 
so I will,” she added, jumping on the clay floor, her appearance not at all 
improved by her ascent. “ Masther, dear, here ’s the boys and the crows, after 
botherin’ me; will ye tell them to help me down with the nest? — the lady’s 
shivering alive with the could, and not a sparkle of fire to keep it from her 
heart.” 

“Don’t you be after botherin’ me , Nelly,” replied the host; “but I ax 
pardon for my unmannerliness,” he continued, coming into the room — his pipe 
stuck firmly between his teeth, and his rotund person stooping, in a bowing 
attitude to Miss Dartforth— “ sure I ’ll move it myself, with all the veins o’ my 
heart, to pleasure the lady at any time !— Give us a loan of the pitchfork, 
Larry.” 

“ To tell God’s truth, master, it ’s broke, and the smith — bad luck to him ! 
—forgot to call for it, and little Paddeen forgot to lave it— but here ’s the 
35 


274 


THE RAPPAREE. 


shovel ’ll do as well, and better too, for it ’s as good as a broom, seeing it ’s so 
neatly split at the broad end.” “ The master” took the shovel, not angrily, as 
an English master would have done, at such neglect ; but taking for granted 
that a shovel would do as well as a pitchfork, or a broom, or anything else, 
“ when it came asy to hand,” and perfectly well satisfied with Larry’s ingenuity. 
He poked, and poked, up the chimney, while Ellen stood looking on at his 
exertions, her head upturned, her ample mouth wide open, displaying her white 
teeth to great advantage. Presently, down came such an accumulation of soot, 
dried sticks, clay, and disagreeables, that Nelly placed her hands on her eyes, 
and ran into the kitchen, exclaiming “ that she was blinded for life ; while the 
young lady, half suffocated, followed her example, and left “ mine host of the 
public” to arrange his crows’ nests according to his fancy. The kitchen of an 
Irish inn (not an inferior place of public accommodation — but what would be 
termed in England a “ posting house”), at the period of which I treat, would 
now be considered as a more befitting shelter for a tribe of Zingari, than for 
Christian travellers ; it was a room of large dimensions, and high elevation, with 
an earthen floor worn into many inequalities, and an enormous hole in the roof, 
directly over where the fire was placed, through which the smoke escaped, 
after hanging, as it were, in fantastic draperies around the discoloured apart- 
ment. A massive bar stood out from the wall, against, or nearly against, which 
the fire was lighted, and from it were suspended sundry crooks and nondescript 
chains, fitting for the support of iron pots and such cooking vessels as were put 
into requisition, when “ quality” stopped, either from necessity or for refresh- 
ment, in the wild and mountainous district where resided Mr. Corney Phelan ; 
indeed, the house was freqdbnted more by farmers’ drovers endeavouring to 
conduct wild mountain sheep to the markets of Waterford, or even Dublin (and 
I have now in my possession some old family memoranda, which state the price 
paid for such animals, at that time, to have been two shillings and sixpence per 
head), and persons in that sphere of life, than by such gentry as Mr. Dart- 
forth, who travelled in his own carriage, and with a suitable number of attend- 
ants ; he was a rich landed proprietor, a justice of the peace, and M. P. for the 
county town. It may be readily supposed that the arrival of persons of rank 
was a matter of importance, and that some preparations were made in the 
“ parlour,” as it was called, while the worthy magistrate occupied himself in 
inspecting the accommodation provided for his horses in the out-houses. The 
animals had undergone much fatigue, for the gentleman and his daughter had 
journeyed from Dublin ; and when he drew near the dwellings of some of his 
principal tenants, he had called upon them, as “ gale day” was passed, to 
collect his rents. The roads leading to those dwellings had, in many instances, 
been rendered heavy, and nearly impassable by the rains ; the horses were 
almost foundered ; and, although within a few miles of home, it was found im- 
possible to proceed without giving them some hours’ rest. Miss Dartforth, 
with the cheerfulness and good-nature so charming in females of every age, 
accommodated herself to circumstances, took off her hat, and, having in vain 


THE IIAPPAREE. 


275 

sought, with the ken of a laughing blue eye, for what a woman, however old 
and ugly, would fain see in every room — a looking-glass — shook back her 
clustering tresses, which twined in wild luxuriance over her graceful form : 
then partially unclasping a silver-laced riding-habit, she made her way amid 
five or six barelegged “ helpers,” some dozens of various-sized pigs, fowl, and 
collies, to a three-legged seat near the fire, close to a petted white calf, that had 
established itself very quietly on a “ lock of straw,” in the most comfortable 
portion of the apartment. She then commenced leisurely investigating the 
whims and oddities of the assembly ; and the smiles that occasionally separated 
her full rich lips, showed she was an amused spectator of the melange. Every- 
thing appeared in confusion ; the landlady, whose mob cap was trimmed with 
full and deep lace of no particularly distinguishable colour, bustled about in 
a loose bed-gown of striped cotton, beneath which a scarlet petticoat, of Dutch 
dimensions stuck forth : she was the only female in the establishment who 
luxuriated in shoes and stockings — the former were confined on the instep, by 
rich silver buckles ; and, though she occasionally sat with much state behind a 
soiled deal board, which presented a varied assortment of drinking measures, 
and was garnished at either end by kegs of whiskey, yet did she keep a neces- 
sary, and not silent surveillance over the movements of the various groups. 
Some idea of her conversation, or, more properly speaking, her observations 
(for she never waited for a reply), may be gathered from the following : — 
“Miss Dartforth, my lady! — (Mary Murphy, will ye never finish picking 
the few feathers off that bird ?)— my lady, I humbly ask yer pardon on account 
of the smoke, and — (Nelly Clarey, Nelly Clarey, may-be it ’s myself won’t pay 
you off for your villany ; don’t tell me of the crows ; what do I give you house- 
maid’s wages for, but to look after my best sitting-rooms ?) — Miss Dartforth, 
ma’am, is that baste (the calf I mane) disagreeable to ye ? — it ’s a pet, ye see, on 
account of its being white — quite white, Miss, every hair — and lucky — Billy 
Thompson, ye little, dirty spalpeen ! will ye have done draining the glasses into 
yer well of a mouth ! — it ’s kind, father, for ye to be afther the whiskey, yet I ’ll 
trouble ye to keep yer distance from my counter — Corney Phelan, it ’ud be 
only manners in ye to take the doodeen out o’ yer teeth, and the lady to the 
fore ; I remember when ye ’d take it out before me — why not ? — the day ye 
married me, dacency and dacent blood entered yer barrack of a house, and 
made it what it is, the most creditable inn in the country — Peggy Kelly, ye ’re 
a handy girl, jump up, astore, on the rafters, and cut a respectable piece of 
bacon off the best end of the flitch — asy — asy ! — mind the hole in the wall, 
where the black hen is sitting — there, just look in, for I ’m thinking the chickens 
ought to be out to-morrow or next day — Larry, ye stricken devil ! have ye 
nothin’ to do, that ye stand chuck in the doorway ?^-are ye takin’ pattern by yer 
master’s idleness — he that does nothin’ from mornin’ till night but drink whiskey, 
smoke, sleep — sleep, smoke, and drink whiskey ? — Oh ! but the heart within me 
is breakin’ fairly with the trouble — bad cess to ye all! — there’s the pratees 
boilin’ mad ! and the beef! — I’ll rid the place of the whole clan of ye — for it’s 


276 


THE RAPPAREE. 


head, hands, and eyes I am to the entire house — ye crew !” &c. &c. — And the 
eloquent, burly lady sprang, with the awkward velocity of a steam-carriage, 
towards the fire-place, oversetting everything in her way, to ascertain how 
culinary affairs were proceeding in two large iron vessels, round which the 
witches in Macbeth might have danced with perfect glee — so deep, and dark, 
and fitting did they seem for all the purposes of incantation. 

Much amused, the young lady patted the calf, which looked into her face 
with the unmeaning innocence of expression that characterizes the animal; 
and, as she stooped to conceal the smiles excited by Mistress Corney Phelan’s 
anger, the loosened tresses fell over her brow and eyes ; their re-adjustment 
occupied a few moments — but when she looked up she saw a woman seated 
opposite to her, whom she certainly had not before noticed, and who she 
thought it very strange should have escaped her observation ; her dress bespoke 
the mendicant, and she eagerly stretched her bony and muscular hands over 
the blazing turf fire ; her frame appeared chilled by the cold of a keen October 
evening that was fast closing — for her cloak remained fastened, and even the 
hood, that perfectly concealed her features, was unremoved ; Miss Dartforth 
could not help remarking that the cloak was much longer than is usually worn 
by Irish beggars, and the foot which projected from beneath its ample folds 
was covered by a substantial brogue. Once, and once only, the fugitive, but 
expressive, glance of a wild, bright eye met hers, and the idea that somewhere 
she had before encountered a similar look possessed her imagination. While 
she was endeavouring to remember the where and the when , her father entered, 
attended by one or two of his servants, and accompanied by a relative, who, 
according to the miserably dependant feeling, that, I regret to say, is not yet 
banished from my country, played clerk, toady, whipper-in, understrapper, or 
what you please, to his patron, who afforded him bed, board, washing, clothes, 
and shooting ; kindly requiring, in return, that he should act as affidavit-man 
on all occasions (particularly when he recorded wonderful stories), and laugh 
invariably at his jests : — “ Time out of mind such duties wait dependance.” 
The justice was a free-hearted man, frank and violent, good-natured and ob- 
stinate, a talker of patriotism, a practiser of tyranny, and fonder of his pretty 
daughter, Norah Dartforth, than of his hounds, his hunters, or even his landed 
interest. It was, however, a well-known and accredited tale that he had 
broken his wife’s Hart by frequent fits of violence; or, more properly speaking, 
he had frightened her out of the world while in the prime of youth, and delicate, 
lily-like loveliness ; he then took an oath, which, I believe, he religiously kept, 
that he never would get into a rage with his daughter. This, nevertheless, did 
not prevent his getting into passions with others, and, indeed, his life, as must 
always be the case where anger is indulged in, was a round of sins and repent- 
ances. The county report went on to say that there was one error he more 
sorrowed over than the rest : — 

Sometime after his marriage, disappointed in not being blessed with an 
heir to his estate, he adopted a boy of singular talents and beauty, whose 


THE 11APPAREE. 


277 


parentis, humble and industrious cotters, died of malignant fever, near his 
avenue gate ; this boy he cherished with all a father’s love and tenderness, and 
even the birth of a daughter, after the lapse of many years, did not appear to 
diminish the affection he entertained for the interesting youth. Unfortunately, 
over-indulgence nurtured a proud and daring spirit, which, by different man- 
agement, could have been tamed to the gentle and ennobling duties of life. 
The boy grew in beauty, and increased in talent ; but he also became imperi 
ous and overbearing; even if Mr. Dartforih and his gentle lady were inclined 
to make allowances for his wayward fancies and insolent actions, the very hum- 
blest serf on his domain was loud in complaints of the parvenu's tyranny ; and 
the worthy man, who had obstinately persisted in a new-fangled idea, which 
he had imbibed from some of the French authors of the period — that the 
human mind was of itself perfection, and that there were no impulses given that 
needed restraint — persevered in his “ system,” as he called it, until the im- 
petuous James brought himself under the strong arm of the law, by an open 
act of violence, directed against one of his protector’s brother magistrates, 
which, but for the interposition of powerful friends, would have banished him 
the country. It would have been better, perhaps, had the law been suffered, 
at that time, to take its course. He returned home with an insulted, but un- 
subdued, spirit, and the remonstrances of his well-meaning but ill-judging 
friend were heard with visible symptoms of impatience. The voice of reproof 
sounded harshly on the ear that, for eighteen summers, had listened to nothing 
but the honeyed accents of praise. In an evil hour, when both were heated with 
that noxious spirit — of which I cannot sufficiently express my detestation, having 
too often witnessed its baneful and pernicious effects — words terminated in 
blows ; Mr. Dartforth struck his protege , and the other, whose tiger spirit could 
ill brook such an insult, hurled his almost-father to the earth. It is but too pro- 
bable that murder would have terminated the disgraceful scene, had not Norah, 
roused from her light and innocent slumbers by the fearful noise of the unna- 
tural combat, rushed between them, and in an instant, her soft, but energetic 
voice awoke the intemperate youth to a sense of his crime and ingratitude ; the 
remembrance of the insult inflicted, was effaced by a sense of the evil he had 
done, and he humbled himself, even to the dust, at Mr. Dartforth’s feet. Then 
was the moment, when his heart and feelings could have been caught on the 
rebound, but the wrathful and intoxicated man cursed the stripling in the mad- 
ness of his rage — it was a deep, a bitter, an irrecallable, curse — that made the 
maiden’s warm blood run cold in her veins, and withered the heart of the unfor- 
tunate victim of intemperate passion. Pale, trembling with varied emotion, he 
crouched, for a moment, beneath the ban— then rising, as the young wolf-hound 
from his lair, without a word, a groan, or a tear— without even an adieu to her 
who had, regardless of her own interest, often palliated his faults — he left, for 
ever, the halls that had sheltered his childhood. 

Great as James’s faults certainly were, it was said that Mr. Dartfortn 
secretly blamed himself for the result ; but even Norah was interdicted from 


278 


THE RAPPAREE. 


mentioning the name of the once favoured boy, who, it was believed, had quitted 
the country for some far distant land. There were, however, many who as* 
serted that, after Patrick James had left Mr. Dartforth, “ his honour had never 
been rightly his own man and, indeed, it was evident to all that his tempe. 
and habits had not improved since his protege had absconded. 

As the magistrate seated himself on a chair, which the bustling landlady 
officiously presented him, next to his gentle and affectionate child — “his heart’s 
darling,” as he termed her, in the warm language of Irish phraseology, that 
d aughter thought she had never seen her father’s cheek so pale, or his eye so 
rayless. 

“ Dear father !” she exclaimed, pressing her left cheek to his, “ sit at the oppo- 
site side, I will move with you — you are chilled, but there you will be quite 
shielded from the draught of the door.” 

“ Make way for yer betthers, honey !” screamed the landlady in the ear of 
the mendicant, who did not seem inclined to relinquish her seat to “ the 
gentry a very unusual thing in Ireland, where so much outward homage is 
rendered to the aristocracy. “ Good woman,” interposed Miss Dartforth, 
coming up to her, and placing her hand gently on her shoulder, “ will you 
oblige me by exchanging seats, as my father suffers by the draught from which 
your cloak protects you ?” 

The beggar rose, and leaning, as if from excessive weakness or fatigue, on 
her staff, crossed over to the other side, at the same time muttering some faint 
words, which neither father nor daughter could comprehend. 

“ Is the woman deaf and dumb ?” inquired Mr. Dartforth, angry, perhaps, at 
her tardiness of motion. 

“ She ’s as good — just then as good as the one and t’ other,” replied the 
bocher, coming forward, dexterously managing so as to make his crutch supply 
the place of his lost leg. “ She’s an afflicted crathur — God presarve us ! — but 
harmless, and ’s under a vow never to let the hood fall off her head, in rain or 
sunshine — heat or cold — night or day ; and, what ’s more, never to lay side on a 
bed for the next seven years. Oh ! there ’s a power o’ holiness about her, plaze 
yer honour.” 

“ I suppose she has committed some dreadful crime, for which the religion 
you believe in requires such atonement ?” 

“ Crime ! the crathur ! — bless ye, no : she ’s as innocent o’ crime, or passion, 
or anything o’ that sort, as yer honour. Och ! no — the poor thing’s heart aches 
for the sins o’ the world, she wishes to ease ’em.” 

“ A female crying philosopher !” observed Mr. Dartforth to his daughter. 

“ And yet there is something that, under other circumstances, would be called 
philosophy, about it,” replied Norah ; “how often is it that situation and influ- 
ence command the homage which, at first sight, appears paid to the virtue, not 
the person !” 

“ Miss Norry, you are growing too wise for me,” said the male toady, who 
was called, by his associates, “ Swallow-all Dick by his superiors. “ Dick 


THE RAPPAREE. 


279 

and by his inferiors (meaning those who honestly worked for their living), 
“ Mister Dick.” He stood, with his hands in his pockets, before the fire, to the 
manifest inconvenience of all engaged in preparing the anticipated meal. 

“ What a wonder that is, to be sure !” muttered Lame Larry, “ as if you were 
one who could shoe the goslins, catch a weasel asleep, or spit a sunbame.” 

“Has there been much news stirring lately — I mean during my absence?” 
inquired Mr. Dartforth addressing Larry, who certainly was the most intelligent 
person of “ the Original Inn.” 

“ Only a few more of Freney’s tricks playing here, and there, and every- 
where, plaze yer honour.” 

“ The rascal ! has any one yet discovered who he is, or where he came 
from ?” 

“Lord, no, sir !— a body might as well hunt and catch a leprechawn as him ; 
did yer honour hear how he sarved the judge and jury, at the ferry o’ Mount 
Garrett? Well, ye see, there was a lot of fire-arms he wanted to get over; 
and the boatman tould him as how he daren’t let him pass, in rason that the 
judge was going to cross in the coorse of the day, and his people were keepin’ 
the boat. ‘Is that all?’ says Freney, says he — the blue eye dancin’ out of his 
head wid scorn, at the little wit o’ the boatman ; and he goes his way. Well, 
jist as the judge, and all the law and the justice in the country — (yer honour’s 
glory was out of it at the same time, ye know, so it didn’t take up much room) 
— the law and the justice all packed tight and comfortable in the boat, as need 
be — up comes a poor blind ould crathur of a man — seemingly as dark as 
dungeon, leadin’ a baste with a load o’ brooms on his back. ‘ Och, my misery !’ 
says the ould crathur — setting up a pulhalew that ’ud reach front this to 
Bantry, — ‘ and it’s I’ll be too late, God help me! and miss the market.’ Well, 
yer honour, for once the judge listened to marcy — and a poor man tho 
pleader. ‘ Come, honest friend,’ says he, * we ’ll make room for you, and yer 
baste can swim over.’ ‘ God mark ye to glory,’ says the ould man, ‘ but what ’ll 
I do with my brooms ?’ ‘ Lay ’em in the bottom of the boat,’ says the 

judge ; and they all got over comfortable together. Well, when they reached 
the other side, sure as life there was a whole troop of the redcoats, waiting to 
cross the contrary way. ‘What are ye after?’ says the judge. ‘Plaze yer 
lordship,’ replied the sargent, ‘ we ’ve just heard that the daring rascal, Freney 
is over the water, with fire-arms, and combustibles, and contrivances enough to 
blow up ould Ireland, and murder it intirely ; and that he wants to get to this 
side, and waylay and destroy every mother’s son at the ’sizes ; so we ’re going 
to stop him.’ ‘ God bless ye for that same !’ said the ould crathur of a man, 
setting his brooms on his baste at the same time ; ‘ it was only yesterday that 
the rapparee took every fardin’ I had in the world — and only left me these few 
screeds o’ clothes ; and if he ’s let go on that way, neither gentle nor simple will 
be alive in the country, this day three months.’ ‘ Could ye describe him ?’ says 
the judge. ‘ He ’s a good portly man, to my seeing,’ made answer the ould 
crathur. ‘Middling-sized — middling-sized,’ repeated the sargent, stepping into 


280 


THE RAPPAREE. 


the boat ; ‘ I ’d know him ten miles off, if the devil himself set him a maskin.’ 
The ould man gave a chuck of a laugh, and off wid him, after making his oba* 
dience, mannerly, to the great gentlemen — and the boat and the soldiers towed 
away for the other side.: and the judge and grandees gothered themselves up, 
quite stylish-like, on the horses that were waitin’ for them — and, by the time they 
were settled, from the top almost of the hill that ye mind is so overgrown with 
osiers, and all kinds of creepin’ bushy herbs* came a loud, wild laugh — and they 
looked up, one and all — and sure enough, there was a sight to frighten the 
tories ! — every plant seemed grown into a livin’ man, with a musket on his arm, 
by way of a shoulder-knot: and ‘Freney’s brooms are the brooms that’ll 
sweep clean!’ shouted one fellow. ‘Our brave little commander for ever!’ 
roared another : and then Freney himself stepped upon the ancient grey rock 
at the top of all, and wavin’ his hat, with the air of a raale nobleman, he bowed 
to the company below. * I ’ll find an opportunity of returnin’ yer lordship’s 
civility ; and you or yours shall never be harmed by me or mine,’ says he ; * and 
I hope you won’t forget Freney and the ferry o’ Mount Garrett.’ Well, before 
ye could say ‘ Cork !’ there were the osiers waverin’ in the wind, so innocent- 
like, and the men gone, as a whiff o’ smoke ; only, as the grandees passed up the 
bank, wild, cheerful laughter onct or twict broke on their ear. And, may -be, 
the sargent and his lobster’s weren’t dancin’ mad in the boat with fair spite, jist 
over the way : and they forced the boatman to tow about, and, somehow or 
other, as he was turnin’, the vessel upset; and such scramblin’ and clawin’ as 
they had to get safe ashore — and their ammunition all wet, and their firelocks 
spoilt ; and then they would have it the boatman did it a-purpose, and swore 
they ’d baygnot him ; the poor fellow was frightened — why not ? — and got 
away out of their reach, just in time to save his life. 

“ But that’s nothin’ to the escape he had not long since, when he hid in a hay- 
rick, and seven soldiers passed him, and every one prodded the rick with their 
baygnots ; and, every time they did, it went into him ; for all that, sorra a stir 
did he stir, only stud it out like a Trojan.” 

“ He has had a great many escapes by flood and field, papa ; I feel quite in- 
terested for him ; he is, I have heard, brave and generous, and particularly 
attentive to females,” observed Norah. 

“ Ay girl ! — you are like the rest of your sweet sex ; give a man a charac- 
ter for bravery, and no matter whether he be brigand, or soldier, or rapparee 
you are all ready to defend his cause; and my life on’t if this Freney, this 
cut-throat, received womankind recruits, the bushes would be covered with 
cast-off drapery.” 

“ Dear papa, he is no cut-throat — no single deed of blood is registered 
against him ; and the instances I have heard of his charity, taking from the 
rich to give to the poor, bestowing, even from his own purse to clothe the 
naked, and feed the hungry, have, I confess, interested me in his fate ; I do not 
feel the least afraid of him.” 

“ Nor never need, Miss, my lady,” observed the bocher , bowing, “ I '11 answer 


THE RAPPAREE. 28 

for it, that James Freney ’ud spill the best drop of his heart’s blood for one smile 
from yer sweet face ; sure he ’s every inch an Irishman.” 

“ You know him then V’ inquired Miss Dartforth, smiling and blushing — for I 
dare not deny the fact that all women like a delicately-turned compliment, even 
from a bocher. 

“ I can’t say but I ’ve seen him,” replied the man, shifting off, at the same 
time, to the other end of the kitchen. It must not be imagined that this dia- 
logue had proceeded, even thus far, without sundry interruptions from worthy 
Mistress Cornelius Phelan, who was all bustle and anxiety at the impropriety 
of such visiters dining in the kitchen ; * and sure the parlour was cleared, and 
but little smell o’ smoke in it now,” &c., &c. Both gentlemen and lady, how- 
ver, persisted in their determination not to enter the “ crow’s nest,” as Norah 
laughingly called it; and the table was accordingly set in the centre of the 
kitchen, and covered, if not with elegant, certainly with substantial, fare ; — 
boiled fowl, enormous nondescript masses of beef, “ neatly boulstered up,” 
to use Mrs. Phelan’s terms, with fine white cabbage and English carrots; 
potatoes, of course, were not wanting ; and the travellers were too hungry to be 
fastidious. Miss Dartforth, who never forgot the wants of others, heaped a 
plate, after the Irish fashion, with meat and potatoes, and before her own dinner 
was ended, turned to present it to the mendicant, but to her surprise, the woman 
had disappeared as mysteriously as she had entered ! She was about to express 
her surprise at this circumstance, when Nelly Clarey (who, blooming under a 
cap which, in some degree, confined her clustering hair, and was ostentatiously 
garnished with cherry-coloured ribands, stood behind her chair to the manifest 
annoyance of Mr. Dartforth’s old servant, who always claimed the privilege of 
waiting personally upon “ his young lady ”), touched her arm, whispering, at the 
same time, “ For God’s sake, never heed her.” 

The October evenings in Ireland are damp and dreary ; nor have they the 
uniformly clear sunsets, or invigorating atmosphere, which characterize the 
farewell summer month in England. The weeping skies of Ireland have become 
almost proverbial; but, even while they weep, they smile — apt emblem of the 
happily volatile temperament of a people who have suffered much, and suffer 
still. I learned in early youth to love the quickly closing evenings of autumn, 
and, at times, delight more in rain than in sunshine. I must however, resume 
the thread of my narrative, and mention that, at about the distance of a hundred 
or a hundred and twenty yards from the hag-yard, which flanked the inn on the 
north, and protected it from the cold winds, ran a long wall, intended originally 
as a division between the farms of two brothers who had sacrificed their 
property in litigation, and died at last poor and penniless — the one in a distant 
land, where he had been sent by the offended laws of his country ; the other in 
a jail. The wall was called, by the country people, “ the brother’s ban,” and a 
good deal of superstitious feeling attached to it. Many of the stones had fallen 
to the earth, and over them the gay green weeds had triumphed, while others 
showed dimly in the moonlight, and might have been easily converted, by the 
36 


282 


THE RAPPAREE. 


magic of imagination, into things of living and mysterious form. A few stunted 
elms, with here and there a dark poplar, waved gentl) tn the chill evening air ; 
and, although the laugh and wassail sounds of the inn talkers and revellers 
called to remembrance the proximity of human habitation, yet the undefinable 
dreariness of the spot was increased, rather than broken, by the shadows of two 
persons, in earnest conversation, the one passing rapidly backwards and for- 
wards with a firm, undaunted step — the other halting, or rather hopping after 
the superior, endeavouring, in vain, to keep pace with him, yet bearing his rapid 
strides and impatient temper with extraordinary good humour. 

“ Fine times, to be sure, they must be wid ye, when ye let a good seven hun- 
dred — I dare saygoold — hard goold — slip through yer fingers as asy as kiss my 
hand ; the boys ’ill never stand it — how could they V 9 observed the lame one. 

“ Not stand it ! What the devil do you mean, Hacket — when there is not an 
ounce of brains among a troop of them V 9 Why, Breen himself dare not — ay — 
I say dare not , dispute my will in anything.” 

“ May-be not; but I know he looked mighty black when I tould him ye meant 
that ould Huncks to get home scot-free.” 

“ Black ! did he ? I wish I had seen him. I tell ye Hacket, his gold, if I 
touched it, would blister my fingers — it would kindle hell’s own fire within 
my heart. For fifteen years I eat of his bread — and even his own child, that 
creature whose pure and spotless hand, not two hours since, rested on my 
shoulder — (it was like a dove seeking repose on a hawk’s wing) — even when 
that child was born, the same shelter, the same smile was mine. Blessed Vir- 
gin !” he continued, striking his forehead violently, “ you, a poor dismem- 
bered, blighted creature, can understand that you couldn’t tear the hand that 
fed ye.” 

“ It was a pity,” replied the bocher (for my readers have doubtless discovered 
that Larry and Hacket, are one and the same person), while a cold sarcastic 
smile overshadowed the usually good-natured expression of his countenance, “ a 

murderin’ pity that ye didn’t think of that when ye ye had the little row.” 

He would have said, “ when ye struck him to the earth but in the dim light he 
marked James Freney’s eye flashing upon him, and he finished his sentence, 
modified even as it was, in a trembling voice. 

The unhappy young man remained silent for a few moments,. while the 
rapidity of his pace increased. At length Hacket ventured to observe that the 
gang had lately been very discontented with his liberality — particularly 'to 
Lady Duncannon, whose money he had returned, merely because her husband 
was not with her, and even refused to take her watch set with* diamonds, 
which they considered robbing them of lawful plunder. “ Ay,” he said, mourn- 
fully, “ it is ever thus : as well might the lordly lion, that I have read of, mate 
with the base-born ass, that brays at the moon, as one^of gentle breeding assimi- 
.ate with such a set — but I am a fool to talk thus to you, Hacket — and worse 
than a fool to have chosen such a life ; but the die is cast, and I am a dreaded, 
•degraded outlaw, whose miserable bones will, one of these days, rattle on a 


THE RAPPAREE. 


283 

gibbet, in the March winds, and scorch there in a July sun — while you — you 
Hacket my poor mother’s only relation, will be the sole living thing to shed a 
tear in remembrance of him, who, instead of his own honest name, was called 
James Freney.” 

“ No such thing,” replied the bocher, notwithstanding his habits and associa- 
tions, much moved at feelings, which, although he could not enter into, he could 
sympathise with, simply because they affected one whom he sincerely loved, not 
merely for the sake of kith and kin, but from mingled and undefined sensations. 
“ No such thing ; you ’ll live, and make a fortune, and get the pardon. Sure, you 
never harm anything to death, and are so complaisant to the ladies, that a wo- 
man’s mob ’ud save ye, if ever it came to that. Ye may be a lawyer yet ; I ’m 
sure ye understand a dale more about it than the half of ’em.” The compliment 
fell unheeded on the ear of the rapparee, who observed : 

“ You gave my positive instructions to Breen, that all were to pass safe ?” 

“I did, though I thought it mighty foolish; — for just look here, now— the 
ould justice owes ye — sure it’s not trusting to seven or eight hundred pounds 
of his money ye ’d be, if ye ’d remained wid him ? Didn’t he breed ye up for 
his heir ? Isn’t a promise a debt? — and there can he no harm in taking what’s 
one’s own.” 

“ I tell ye what, Hacket, if all the saints, and priests, and bishops, and the 
blessed Virgin herself, were to absolve me the next minute, I would not — I could 
not ! — There ’s the share I had out of the Waterford merchants, that, troublesome 
job ; why half the plunder now is hid up and down the country, in bog-holes 
and brier-knocks ; but my share they shall have of that, and of anything else 
going. A kind commander I have ever been, and mean to remain ; but I will 
be their commander while my brain has strength to frame a resolution, or my 
finger power to draw a trigger.” 

“Well — well — yer heart’s set upon it, agra! enough said; for, as I live, the 
ould justice is on the move. I see Nelly Clarey herself, pokin’ out with the 
candle, lookin’ for me ; and Paddy Dooley, too ; and the sarvin’-men — the over- 
fed, poor porpoises, crawlin’ about ; — but, Captain, dear, ye ’ll never be able to 
get your horse, Beefstakes, out of the back shed, unknownst , while them lazy 
animals are loungin’, doin’ nothin, at all, at all.” 

“ Too true,” replied Freney, evidently much annoyed at this information. “ 1 
meant to have been off before them.” 

“ D’ ye hear that girl screaming ‘ Larry’ like a skirl-a-white ? Choke ye, 
a’n’t I going !” Larry moved several steps towards the farmyard ; then, as ii 
remembering something particular, returned, and said, “ Mister Captain, I jist 
wanted to tell ye that I fancied, may-be, ye were throwin’ a sheep’s-eye aftei 
Nelly ; now, I ’ve always had a mind to that girl, myself. Ay, ye may clap a 
sneer on yer handsome face, if ye like ; but though I own to the loss of the 
limb, I ’m no bad fellow to look at when the disguise is off, and a tidy bit of a 
wooden leg on : there ’s a time for all things ; and I know you ’d never think 
of her as your wife ; but I tell ye, that barefooted lass deserves honourable 


284 


THE RAPPAREE. 


tratement ; and it would be what / don’t deserve, let alone her , to have her heaJ 
turned for nothin’ at all, but, may-be, to make her an open shame before the 
whole country; so let her alone, and for once take a fool’s advice.” The 
hoclier swung off towards the rude stables, leaving the rapparee, captain of 
one of the most daring gangs that ever infested the country, in an irritated 
and melancholy frame of mind. He folded himself up in the long blue cloak 
that had served to conceal his person at the inn, and ruminated, as he 
'reclined against the mouldering wall, on the uncertainty, and waywardness of 
what he, in his blindness, designated Fate. 

“ There is a bitterness in man’s reproach, 

Even when his voice is mildest, and we deem 
That on our heaven-born Freedom they encroach, 

And with their frailties are not what they seem ; 

But the soft tones in star, in flower, or stream, 

O’er the unresisting bosom gently flow, 

Like whispers which some spirit in a dream 
Brings from her heaven to him she loved below, 

To chide and win his heart from earth, and sin, and woe.” 

Freney, the robber and the outlaw, felt the reproving voice from “ star, and 
flower, and stream and the brief vision of one who, had he conducted himself 
with common propriety, might have been the cherished and respected wife of 
his bosom, sent many a bitter pang of self-reproach through his aching heart ; — 
he contrasted what he was, with what he could have been ; few are there who 
can bear so miserable a retrospect unmoved. 

He had seen Norah Dartforth not an hour before, and the remembrance of 
her surpassing loveliness pressed upon his imagination, in gentle but firm oppo- 
sition of the efforts he made to obliterate her image from his memory. Poor 
Nelly Clarey, whom, with Irish recklessness, he had often jested with, forgetting 
the impression such conduct might make upon a thoughtless, but not a heartless 
girl — in his present refined mood now appeared a coarse and vulgar creature ; 
and he felt more angry with Hacket, for the insinuation he had thrown out 
about her, than for any other portion of his remonstrance. At length, overcome 
with contending feelings, he rested his head against one of the huge, white stones 
I have before mentioned ; and even while he watched the flitting lights in the 
inn-yard, sleep steeped his eyes in forgetfulness. 

“ Captain, dear, what ails ye ?” were the kindly sounds which aw r oke him 
to consciousness. “ Lord save us ! jist at the very minute whin all the wit ye 
have in the world is most wantin’, to find ye sleepin’ in this unlucky place, in 
the could moonlight, and not lookin’ a taste like yerself. Rouse, Captain, honey i 
or those ye wish well to ’ll be the worse for it.” 

The robber eagerly and anxiously inquired what the young woman’s words 
portended. 

“ Whisht — asy !” exclaimed Nelly, in a low, confidential tone ; “ sure they 
think I ’m asleep ; for you don’t look to me sensible that it ’s close upon eleven , 


THE RAPPAREE. 


285 

and the mistress’s tongue itself is quiet a good hour agone ; and the gentry set 
off afore nine ; and there ’s more hot foot after them, than you ’d have a mind to, 
1 ’m thinkin’.” 

“ Nelly, for God's sake, come to facts at once, or ” 

“ I will ; sorra a word I ha’ said that wasn’t as true as gospel— but let me 
tell it my own way. I heard ye say to Larry (the poor, conceated crature !) 
that ye wanted most particular to see Breen ; well, for sartain sure, the bocher 
tould him so, for he has been skulkin’ about the place all day ; but instead of 
coming to the fore, I noticed him hidin’ and pokin’ more like a grasnogue than 
a Christian. Well, ye see, I went out about the stables, jist to cool myself, 
after the cookin’, and the flurry o’ dinner, and the quality, and all ; and, some- 
how, my light (though I made a screen for it, with a cabbage leaf), went out 
just at the minute I thought o’ fodderin’ the cow, the craythur, that the boys 
don’t half mind ; so, knowin’ she doesn’t like to be ’woke of a suddent, I went 
asy to the door, and jist as I was goin’ to pull out the kipeen (not that the door ’s 
much good, on account of the gap in the wall), I hard Breen in low discourse 
wid another man, that I ’d no knowledge of in life ; and he went on for to tell 
him how unreasonable ye war’ in regard o’ takin’ a turn out o’ the ould gentle- 
man’s money ; and how he wouldn’t listen to no such thing — but purtend to you, 
whin it was all over, that it was nothin’ but a misunderstandin’, and down-face 
the bocher that he said one thing, when to the hearin’ of my two ears the poor 
thing said the direct contrary.” 

“ The villain ! — the double-dealing, mean-spirited villain !” ejaculated 
F reney. 

“Ye may say that,” responded Nelly, “But wait awhile till ye know alL 
‘ I ’m sartain,’ says t’other man, ‘ that the captain ’ll take to the road after them, 
by way of purtection, for he has a suspicion over you, when anything like this 
is stirrin’; and ye know there’s not one o’ the boys ’ud disobey the captain.’ 
‘ I ’m sure he ’s for the road,’ says Breen, * for Hacket tould me Beefstakes was 
in the same cow-shed, at the back, as my Slasher ; and more betokens, at the 
right-hand side.’ * And a noble pair o’ bastes they are,’ remarks t’ other ; ‘ but 
Beefstakes is terrible knowin’, and sorra a harm it would be to put a peg to his 
speed for to night.’ ‘ What do you mean V says Breen. 4 Bathershin,’ makes 
answer the strange man, ‘you don’t know— why, just run a nail up the fetlock, 
— sure it ’s only an accident, and nobody the wiser.’ ” 

“ The cold-blooded scoundrel !” muttered the captain between his firmly-set 
teeth, “ the noble horse that has so often saved my life !” 

“ Well, they coshered, and coshered, so asy, I couldn’t make out the 
words,” persisted Nelly, “ only the short and the long of it was, that the stranger 
was to go and lame the beast at once ; and, as they couldn’t get the animals 
out while the sarvents were about the house, jist wait till they were gone , 
and then, takin’ the short road to the black gap, wait there for the company. 
May-be ye think ye have it all yer own way — says I; but better than you 
have got into the wrong box. So I stole off asy — asy — under shelter of the 


286 


THE RAPPAREE. 


wall, till I cleared the corner, and then away with me in a whisk to poor 
Beefstakes. And what do ye think I did? I minded well what had been 
said, that your baste was on the right side ; so I jist made ’em change places ; 
and, my jewel ! afore you could clap yer hands — afore I could make way for 
myself to get out o’ the scrip of a shed, the murderin’ black villain comes ; and 
sure it ’s myself was afeard of the horse’s heels, and I scrudged up into a mere 
nothin’ right under Beefstakes’ legs. And, as if the baste knew the business, 
he never stirred all the time the fellow was lamin’ his own animal. Well, 
when he thought his job finished, captain, honey, he skulked off with himself 
like an exciseman ; and, as asy as ever I could, I made the crathurs change 
places, again, like the great parliament lords ; and ye may go bail it’s little I 
heeded fodderin’ the cow, though she turned her head to me, nataral as a 
Christian : and knowin’ yer saddle was particular, I changed that too ; and 
God sees I was tremblin’ for all the world like a shakin’ bog, till I got out o’ 
the place; and the end of it was — I see the gentry off; and Breen wasn’t 
long behind — but he was forced to go asy at first, on account of the road — the 
short cut, ye know, bein’ broke up wid the rain ; but for fear he ’d suspect (for 
the baste must fall lame when he puts any speed upon it), I thought it most 
prudent, ye see, jist to lift Beefstakes out o’ the shed intirely — and so I led him 
round to the black thorn at the left, by the gap, in the corner. And now, cap- 
tain, ’gra ! ye may think as ye plaze — but grim as ye look all this blessed time, 

I ’ve done a friendly turn for you and the baste — and ” 

“ Grim as I look !” repeated Freney, his gallantry and his grateful feelings 
both rousing to meet the accusation; “my darling Nelly, I never loved ye 
half as well as at this moment,” he continued, energetically, at the same time 
imprinting no very gentle salute on her lips. Ellen drew the back of her hand 
across her mouth, as if to efface the kiss, and then replied : 

“ Faigs, Captain, I ’ll not say that ’s a lie, and yet the love ye talk of isn’t deep 
enough to smother a kitten; I see as plain as I see the moon in the heavens, 
that I ’m not the sort for you to fix honourable love upon — and for the other sort, 

I ’d scorn it, as men scorn the women they bring to shame : I didn’t think so 
once, may-be — (the poor girl’s voice faltered), but I see this day the raale bame 
o’ love from under yer hood, when it wasn't at me ye looked, and I felt the differ ; 
— but never heed it, Captain, aroon !” — and she drew herself up, and laughed a 
light, bravoing laugh, which any one could hear came from the lip, not the 
heart, and then half said, half sung, the old stanza : 

u ‘ While me ye thought for to beguile, 

I cared for another all the while : 

And knew, my boy, what ye were at ; 

Och ! never fear but I spied ye, Pat ! 

Wid yer smiles, 

And yer wiles ! 

And by the same rule, 

Ye think every girl ye meet a fool !’ ” 


THE RAPPAREE. 


287 

Freney was too earnest, too occupied, to play the gallant on this occasion ; 
and contented himself with observing, as he hastened towards the spot where 
nis really noble animal pawed the earth, with “ proud impatience of ignoble 
ease — 

“ Well, Nelly, sweethearting out of the question, you have acted the part of a 
true friend, which by God’s blessing, I will never forget to you or yours. Save 
ye ! my brave lass ! The head and the heart of an Irishwoman are always ready 
when wanting, and, faith, that ’s more than can be said of the men.” He sprang 
lightly into his saddle, and Beefstakes, as if conscious that his utmost speed was 
required, used well the freedom of the loosened bridle : horse and rider were 
soon out of sight. 

What the feelings of Nelly Clarey were, must now, for ever, remain un- 
known, even to me, her faithful historian ; all I can record of her is, that she 
repeatedly wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and then gazing, only 
for a moment, upon the spot where he had disappeared, with a Hleep-drawn sigh 
retraced her steps to the miserable, almost roofless, apartment, in which her 
couch was spread, and where she soon sweetly and tranquilly slumbered, as if 
she had never known sorrow, or revelled in tears. 

I know not how it is, but there is a species of — must I call it coquetry ? — 
(I do not mean the regular coquetting system absolutely taught to a young fe- 
male on her entrance into fashionable life, and which, in nine cases out of ten, 
from its visible arrangement, is perfectly harmless, and not unfrequently decided- 
ly ' disgusting) — but a sort of natural witchery, born, I may say, with every 
genuine Irishwoman, and which, in the cottages, is particularly striking and fas- 
cinating. 

To those who have not witnessed it, I fear any description would appear 
unnatural, simply because unknown ; those who have , must be heartless if 
they have not felt, and do not remember, its charm. I cannot think it over- 
strained to call it the coquetry of innocence, for in it there is neither art nor 
guile ; it plays most bewitchingly in their bright and beaming smiles, when 
they blush at the remembrance of their earnest and heartfelt laughter ; and, 
though a young Irish girl will seldom look at a stranger, except “ out pf the 
corner of her eye,” the glance has nothing sinister or suspicious about it, but 
discourses at the same moment modestly, yet frankly ; — it is as apart from 
French flippancy as from English stiffness, and yet partakes of the gaiety, but 
not the lightness, of the former, blended with the reserve, without the formality 
of the latter. 

Freney pursued his course towards the high road, and murmured within him- 
self, in no gentle terms, at the impediments in his way ; the by-path was little 
more than a sheep-trail, and much broken by heavy and continued rains : and, 
moreover, the moon (“ pale, inconstant planet”) withdrew her light just at the 
time when our hero required it most. Beefstakes, however, knew his road well, 
and Freney left him pretty nearly to his own guidance, content with now and 


THE RAPPAREE. 


288 

then encouraging his speed by some kind word of approbation, or an occasional 
pressure of his heel against his flank. The road they had taken led almost 
abruptly to the top of a wild, uncultivated hill, or rather what, in England, 
would be denominated a mountain; and, as the animal was gaining its summit, 
his master heard, or fancied he heard, the report of a gun or pistol ; the horse, 
too, evidently gave tokens that the well-known sound of fire-arms broke upon 
his ear, for he snorted, and shook his head, while pressing more eagerly 
onward. 

Freney suddenly checked the rein, and leaning completely over the neck of 
the noble animal, seemed as if inhaling whatever sounds the night wind bore up 
the hill ; the pause, though momentary, was long enough for his purpose : he 
muttered a deep low curse, too fearful for repetition, and urged the impetuous 
animal to its utmost speed. It was a noble steed, and cleared every impediment 
that obstructed its progress, vaulted the highest enclosures, and, having attained 
the summit of the hill, snorted the combat afar off as he dashed, in gallant style, 
down the declivity, with distended nostril and fire-striking foot. Fortunately 
the moon threw a full and glorious flood of light on their path, so that, even 
in the distance, Freney distinctly beheld the confirmation of his fears, and the 
necessity, had it been possible, for redoubled exertion. The ground descend- 
ed steeply, but unevenly, into a hollow glen, one side of which was skirted by 
stunted and straggling brushwood, that fringed what was called the carriage 
road, while the other sloped down to a sort of shingly bottom (the black 
glen), through which a mountain stream brawled angrily and restlessly on its 
way. This place had been selected by Breen as the most fitting for his pur- 
pose, and at the moment the moon shone forth, the renegade had commenced 
rifling the carriage of Freney’s early friend. The old gentleman’s faithful 
servants had evidently made a desperate, and not a bloodless resistance ; and, 
as the captain of the gang neared the spot, his blood boiled, and his heart 
throbbed, for in the dim light he beheld Norah Dartforth, with dishevelled 
tresses, supporting her father in her arms, as she half knelt, half reclined, by 
the way-side. 

The group was one that Salvator only could have painted, nor would it 
have been unworthy of his pencil. The brightness of the clear full moon, 
from which the ill-omened, scowling clouds were rapidly receding, leaving her 
alone and queen-like in the purity of her own heavens — the abrupt and 
frowning mountain, glowering like a gigantic and malignant spirit over all 
within its influence — the wild and tangled copsewood that partially shaded 
without obscuring, the singular and dissimilar assemblage, that had for its 
centre the antique and picturesque carriage — while the richly dressed servants 
and the beautiful and interesting attitude of the kneeling girl finely contrasted 
with the demoniac appearance of the lawless plunderers. But even my king of 
painters, had I power to recall him from his repose in that warm and sunny 
country — 


THE RAPPAREE. 


289 


“ Where the poet’s lip and the painter’s hand 
Are most divine,” 

must have failed in conveying an idea of the succession of mingled and warring 
feelings that were manifested, when Freney, fierce and terrible as the mountain- 
spirit, his horse covered with foam, his eyes flashing with rage and indignation, 
plunged in amongst them. 

“ Villain 1” he exclaimed, seizing the wretch Breen by the collar, as a massive 
pocket-book, large enough for a modern folio, dropped from the false fellow’s 
grasp; while, with his other hand Freney drew from his belt a large horse- 
pistol — “ you are a fit example for all who disobey orders,” he continued with a 
frightful coolness of tone and manner. 

“ Mercy, and hear me !” entreated the caitiff, falling on his knees “ there is no 
blood spilt to signify— no harm done then, suddenly recollecting himself, he 
added, “ sure I can’t understand why ye trate me after such a fashion— judgment 
afore death, in this world, any way.” 

“ Look here, boys,” persevered the captain, without loosening his hold, “ my 
orders were given — my orders have been disobeyed, and thus I punish all — ay 
— every mother’s son who dares to think and act in opposition to them !” He 
cocked the pistol, and placed its muzzle close to the wretched man’s ear, while 
all who breathlessly beheld the scene appeared paralyzed by the energy and de- 
termination of this singular being. 

“ For God’s sake ! — as you expect mercy at your dying day ! — don’t send me 
out of the world without cross or prayer ! — one — one minute to make my soul ! 
Oh ! for the sake of the mother that bore ye, remember another woman’s son !” 
rapidly ejaculated the unfortunate man. His entreaties had little effect, and in 
another moment, he would have been launched into eternity, had not a small 
white hand, for the second time that night rested on Freney’s shoulder ; and a 
gentle voice, trembling and faint from agitation, exclaimed, “ Forbear !” By 
degrees, his firm grasp relaxed, the lion melted into the lamb, and the outlaw, 
who braved the ordinances of man, and who would not have quailed beneath the 
iron grasp of justice, trembled at that gentle touch. 

“ I know not — I dread to know,” said Miss Dartforth, “ by what power you 
command those men — but I recognize the playmate of my youth ; and the child 
my angel mother fostered will not surely stain his hand with blood.” 

“ Believe me,” he replied, earnestly, “ that, though Patrick James, and 
James Freney, are one and the same person, I have nothing to do with this 
night’s unfortunate affair. I have not forgotten, Norah — pardon me, Miss 
Dartforth, — I have not forgotten what I owe to your house.” He turned ab- 
ruptly from her, as if afraid to trust himself under her influence. “ Rise, ye 
poor trembling miscreant! — to the lady ye would have plundered you owe 
your life,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, addressing Breen, who did 
not need to have the permission repeated. “ And now, my men, help Mr. 

37 


290 


THE RAPPAREE. 


Dartforth’s servants to replace what you would have plundered. Breen, youi 
assistance is not required — you hold no communion with my free-hearted boys ; 
not one of them, except yourself, would have dared to disobey me — you and 
one other. All share of booty, for the next three months, I disclaim ; there, 
replace the things, my fine fellows, and I will count scores with you after- 
wards.” 

Freney’s utterance and actions were rapid and energetic ; his followers dia 
as he commanded, with the air of persons who obey more from habit than 
inclination. It was, nevertheless, obvious, that Freney w r as much agitated ; 
not from any dread of revolt amongst his gang, but from the recurrence, at 
such a moment, of recollections that almost overpowered him. After 
issuing his brief directions, he walked to where Miss Dartforth had returned to 
support her father, and hardly answered the question of one of his party, who 
having discovered the person I before mentioned, as the family “ toady? coiled 
up, or rather, squatting, like the vile reptile, wffiose name appropriately belongs 
to his class, under a huge furze-bush, dragged him forth, and held him, after 
the fashion of a bale of cloth, at either end, while he exclaimed, “ Captain, 
dear! what’s to be done wid this parcel? Sure the jontleman ’ud be glad 
to get rid of it any way ; though, I ’m thinkin’, its little good is in it for man 
or baste.” 

The old gentleman was evidently labouring under an aberration of mind, 
brought on by terror, and contending feelings : his every nerve trembled, and 
it was with great difficulty that his daughter and his own servant supported, 
or rather carried, him towards the carriage, by that time ready for his recep- 
tion. He perfectly understood that the young man who tendered his services 
to assist him forward, and had saved his property, perhaps his life, was the same 
he had first cherished, and then abandoned ; but he did not appear to under- 
stand the light in which he stood, as captain of the robbers: he seized his 
proffered arm w r ith the eagerness of a drowning man, catching at aught that is 
even symbolic of hope, and looked long and earnestly into his face ; at length, 
his pale, dull eyes filled with unbidden tears, and with a powerful effort he threw 
himself on the brigand’s neck, lifted up his voice, and wept most bitterly. It 
was a time of trial for all, and, in after years, was often thought of. 

Mr. Dartforth was at length placed in the carriage, and, in broken accents, 
he entreated Freney to enter with him. “ All shall be yours, James, as before,” 
he murmured — “ sure you ’ve saved my life. Norah, you speak for me, he always 
heeded you.” This was more than Freney could bear ; — he rushed from his 
grasp, ordering the coachman to drive on, in a tone of voice not to be dis- 
obeyed. 

I have heard that Mr. Dartforth never perfectly recovered from the effects of 
that night’s adventure ; — the consciousness that the youth he had so loved, was 
the rapparee chief, upon whose head a price was set, and who suffered the curse 
of Ishmael, even in his own land, embittered every hour of his existence : but 


THE RAPPAREE. 


291 


worse, even than that, was the consciousness that his mismanagement had led 
to such fearful consequences. Even those who suffered from Freney’s plun- 
derings, were ready to admit there was that about him which, had it been 
properly managed, would have rendered him the admiration, not the terror, of 
his country. And, with this miserable knowledge, the old man descended to 
his grave, ignorant of what a few years longer life would have informed him — 
for Freney, in process of time, repented, and became reformed, and finished his 
days, in peace and qu>2tness, in the town of New Ross. 




GERALDINE. 

OU cannot conceive anything more beautiful, either 
in situation or interior, than the simple chapel of our 
“ Lady of Grace,” that crowns the cliffs, at Honfleur, 
where sailors and their wives offer their prayers, and 
pay their vows. I found a number of my country- 
men and women at Honfleur ; and was much struck 
w r ith the appearance of one in particular, who climbed 
the hill leading to the chapel, every morning, and re- 
mained there during the day. The servant who 
accompanied, or rather followed her, never revealed 
her surname ; she spoke of her, and to her, as “ Miss 
Geraldine,” and threw into this name of lofty sound 
as great a quantity of Irish, unsophisticated brogue, as 
the three syllables could express. It was very plea- 
sant to me to hear the tones of my own country in a 
foreign land, and still more pleasing to observe the 
attention, amounting to positive devotion, which the good-tempered, broad- 
featured woman bestowed upon the fair devotee. 



( 292 ) 


GERALDINE. 


293 


44 Devotee !” — I do not know exactly why I should call her so, except from 
the fact of her perpetually climbing that most picturesque and winding road, 
leading to the chapel, and kneeling before the pretty shrine of the Madonna, 
for hours together ; her attitude was one of perfect devotion ; one small hand 
held the rosary, the other shaded her face ; the cloak appeared abandoned to its 
own drapery — her hair fell as you see, in the most degage undress ; and it was 
not until you approached the fair saint, that you perceived her eyes were any- 
thing but quiet — they rambled from corner to corner of their fringed pent- 
houses, with an observant, rather than a coquetish, expression ; certainly, 
with anything but the devoted one which her attitude would lead you to 
expect. She appeared thinking of, and expecting, some one who did not come. 
Her step, in the morning, seemed buoyant with hope — but, in the evening, she 
hung her head, and descended to an obscure lodging in the town, as if weighed 
down by disappointment. Meeting her so frequently, and feeling deeply 
interested in one so beautiful, it was impossible not to evince a portion of that 
feeling, restrained as it must be, by the fear of offending its object ; at last, 
however, we exchanged brief greetings ; and she would, when I visited the 
chapel, rise from before the Madonna, and point out some particular offering 
for my sympathy or admiration; but our acquaintance gained no further 
ground ; she spoke but few words, and their tone conveyed the idea that she 
was not in the least interested in what she said; her words were with you, but 
not her thoughts — they were away ; but where ? With her deserted country, 
or forsaken parents, or absent brothers, or — that is ever the uppermost thought 
on such occasions — a wandering lover? Her attendant seldom entered the 
chapel, but would sit outside, under the magnificent Cross which casts its pro- 
tecting shadow over the waters. I can imagine nothing more cheering to the 
spirits of a French sailor, than the sight of that Cross as he returns, after wrest- 
ling with the spirits of the deep, to his native country. 

The attendant was naturally communicative ; and anxious to impress me with 
a notion of Miss Geraldine’s sanctity and greatness “ in her own country ;” but, 
with all her national garrulity, she guarded well her young lady’s secret, what- 
ever it was. 

44 It ’s hard, so it is,” she said, one evening, just as the sun was about to set ; 
— 44 it ’s mighty hard to have nothing to do but sit here, looking over the sea, or 
taking account of the voteens that come up to pray for the return of those that 
may-be, have left their bones to the mermaids, long ago ; but I don’t care, it ’s 
the love and duty I owe m y fosterer ; for, although she’s a lady, as any one 
may see, and I ’m— just what I am, and nothing more or less, — we were both 
reared on the same milk ; both slept on the same bosom — that ’s cold, colder, 
than them stones, now ; if it wasn’t — it ’s in dear Ireland we ’d be still ;” and 
tears poured from her large grey eyes, but were quickly suppressed. 44 ‘Oh, it ’s 
mighty grand,’ as I say to Miss Geraldine, 4 to come to foreign parts ; — but 
where’s the country like our own, — the country that has the nature in it — the 
welcome that comes from the heart, — the farewell that bursts from the eyes?’ 


GERALDINE. 


294 

Oh, my ! and she in there, all day ; and when she comes out, it ’s more dead 
than alive she ’ll be ! If you had seen her a year ago, when her beautiful face 
was ever in motion — like the sunbeams on the sea — and when she *d lay down, 
and uprise with a song upon her lips, that like two real lovers, never parted 
but to meet in smiles ! Oh, my ! the spirit ’s prayed out of her — so it is.” 

“ Not quite,” I said, and I remembered the inquiring expression of her wander- 
ing eyes. 

“ Oh !” answered the ready Irishwoman — “ if she prays, she watches too, — 
she must — though that ’s neither here nor there. There ’s fine religion in this 
country, and nothing to go against it ; and yet I wish we were back in ould Ire- 
land once more : but let her go where she will, I ’ll never part her. I promised 
the dying on the death-bed, I never would — with her liking, or without it ; and, 
as the ould verse says, 

* By a promise to the dead, 

Through the world you may be led 

and that ’s thrue, and why not? — it ’s a promise you can’t be absolved from, only 
by a priest, and his reverence would not like being troubled about such a thing, 
at all. The sight ’s wore out of my eyes, and the feet off my legs, and the laugh 
from my heart , just with following her ; but I don't care for that ; when her 
vow’s out, we ’ll have peace, may-be.” 

“ But what is her vow to you ?” 

The large grey eyes dilated, until they looked half as large again as usual, 
while she repeated, “ Is it to me, ma’am ? sure I tould you, dear, she was Miss 
Geraldine, my own young lady, away from her people, and country ; — and the 
promise ! Ah, then, sure now, I ’ve just tould you of my promise to them that 
loved her ; and little thought it ’s in this outlandish country she ’d be, where they 
are so ignorant that they have no English ; though it ’s a God-fearing country, 
for all that. ‘ What is her vow to me,’ avick ! Ah, were you ever in Ireland 
at all, to ask that, and she my fosterer — besides ? ‘ Her vow to me,’ the jewel : 

the heavens above knows — more than my own — ten times; may-be I won’t 
follow her through the earth — my soul’s delight !” 

“ But, suppose she was to become very poor,” I said. 

“ She ’d want me all the more,” replied Irish fidelity. “ Besides,” she added, 
laughingly, “ it is not easy to frighten any one with poverty, who has lived all 
her life, for seven days out of the week, upon potatoes and milk. I don’t care 
for any hardship that would come upon myself; but I ’d lay down my life to 
save her , the darling of my heart, from any harm. May the Lord put all heavy 
trouble past her ! Sure, I pray for that on my bended knees, night and morn- 
ing, as well as all day long ; she ’s had her cross, and, in time, will have her 
crown. I left my country, and him I loved better than any country, to follow 
her; and if she’s here to-day, she may be gone to-morrow: — there she is, now, 
as white as a snowdrop — so, good evening, ma’am ; and God be with you !” 

About ten days after this, we had nearly achieved the summit of our favour- 


GERALDINE. 


295 


ite walk, and only paused to look back upon the town, when a gentleman 
passed us, with steps, it would seem, more eager than his strength permitted ; 
his dress was more foreign than French — decidedly not belonging to the British 
Isles. We did not see his face, which was turned away. When we arrived on 
the hill — there, in her old place, sat the faithful Irishwoman, looking over the 
sea ; and by some instinct, turning her head to scrutinize every one who set 
foot upon the natural platform on which the chapel stands, and the cross is 
planted : her recognition was a broad smile, a closing of the hands, and a mo- 
tion of her head — and then, as we approached, she rose. We had not, how- 
ever, exchanged a word, when a faint scream sent her flying to the chapel. 
We followed, to see the fair devotee weeping and sobbing, like a child, on the 
shoulder of the stranger we had passed on the hill. 

The next morning they had quitted Honfleur — some said, in a ship sailing for 
Mexico — others declared, for Sydney. The old woman of the house protested 
the stranger to be Miss Geraldine’s brother — for he was so like her ; and the 
brown-skinned, black-eyed daughter observed, that husbands were sometimes 
like their wives. There was no doubt that the servant still followed her lady’s 
fortunes — faithful and devoted to the last 






MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 



HERE’S the good of talking to me of a dance, or 
anything of the sort V 9 said Kathleen Ryley, rais- 
ing her clear blue eyes to the good-natured coun- 
tenance of Philip Murphy : “ sure ye know my 
pumps aren’t come home — nor, more betokens, 
won’t be till Saturday night ; and Saint Patrick 
himself couldn’t cut a step in such brogues as 
them.” 

Kate was, in very truth, a frank-hearted, merry 
girl, with laughing blue eyes, a joyous counte- 
nance, and a sweet, love-sounding voice, one 
whom sorrow had shadowed, but could not cloud. 
Her father, a respectable farmer, had the misfor 
tune to lose a sensible industrious wife, when Kath- 
leen was not more than fourteen ; leaving him, be- 
sides his eldest daughter, five young, troublesome 

( 296 ) 


297 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 

children. Everybody pitied Mark Ryley ; everybody said, “ he must marry 
again ; Kate was too young, and too giddy, to manage such a household.” — 
Everybody, however, was wrong. Mark Ryley did not marry again, and Kate 
did manage his household. And, in sooth, it was a beautiful sight — a sight that 
may be often vainly sought in nobler dwellings — to observe the filial and sisterly 
tenderness of the simple Irish lass. Kathleen was considered a pretty maiden 
by all who knew her, and her mother had bestowed extraordinary pains upon 
her daughter’s apparel ; but matters changed when the poor woman died ; the 
fine gingham frocks, and Sunday tippets, were cut and manufactured, by 
Kate’s own hands, into holiday dresses for her two little sisters ; daily did she 
send them to the village school, and never permit either to remain at home, 
to assist in her labours, which certainly were not light. Then her three bro- 
thers occasioned her much trouble; such clipping and shaping of jackets — 
which, after all, in fashionable parlance would have been denominated shapeless — 
such patching of shirts, and eternal mending of Sunday stockings ! It was at 
once her pride and pleasure that her father’s comforts should be as well cared 
for as during her mother’s lifetime; and, even to the public-house (where, 
it is but justice to state, his visits were seldom made), his daughter’s influence 
extended ; for thither would she follow, and so wile him homeward, that the 
neighbours declared, “of all girls in the world, sweet Kathleen Ryley had the 
most winning way.” 

Kathleen did not owe any of her charms to meretricious ornament ; her 
every-day gear was of coarse striped linsey-wolsey, though its tight fitting body 
and short sleeves, it cannot be denied, set off her fine round figure to much ad- 
vantage; she was seldom guilty of the extravagance of wearing stockings in 
summer, except on Sundays ; but her white muslin kerchief was always deli- 
cately clean, neatly mended, and carefully pinned across her bosom. Her light, 
shining hair — not tortured into curls, but plainly braided to the back of her head, 
where it was fastened by a small tortoise-shell comb, (the only article of finery 
she possessed, and which, to confess the truth, had been presented to her by no 
other than Philip Murphy) — she w'as, perhaps, a little vain of. 

Philip thought Kate very handsome in her linsey-woolsey gown — very hand- 
some when washing the face of her troublesome brother, Tom (an obstinate 
lad of six, lubberly and dirty as any Irish boy need be) — very handsome, when 
watching to see if her father’s pipe wanted lighting, after a hard day’s work— 
or when disrobing him of his “jock coat,” worn only on Sabbath or saint’s 
days. Moreover, he thought, and no wonder, that she would make a very 
handsome bride. He had said this over and over again, both to her and her 
father ; and her father had replied, “ that as they loved each other, and as 
Philip was well to do in the world, they might be married as soon as they 
pleased.” But the lassie’s consent was wanting, although his love was the star 
of her existence. 

“ When it pleased God (praise be to His holy name, for ever— amen !) to 
take my poor mother,” she would say, in reply to her lover’s urgent entreaties 
38 


298 


MABEL O NEIL’S CURSE. 


for their immediate union — “ sure it was all as one as if He said, ‘ Katy, ma- 
chree, be an own mother to them desolate children.’ Wait — wait a while 
Phil : summer flowers are more plenty than spring ones ; the grass will be all 
the longer, and the blossoms all the sweeter, for a taste o’ patience ; and Anty 
will be able to do for my father as well as me, and they ’ll all have their laming 
and the blessing ’ll be the more round our own little place, in reason of my 
having done my duty to the poor orphans.” 

Such were Kathleen’s simple reasons, which had she been a “ high born 
ladye,” would have called down the applause of an admiring world. As it was, 
Kate had the approbation of her own conscience, and the increased affection of 
the heart she so dearly prized — for Philip could not but value more highly the 
girl who possessed principles so exalted and self-denying. 

I must now revert to the humble dialogue with which my story com- 
menced. 

“ The dickons himself carry all shoemakers, say I !” replied young 
Murphy; “he might have finished the pumps long enough ago, if he had a 
mind ; to have such nate little feet as them in such vagabond brogueens, sure 
it ’s too bad intirely ! — but it ’s always the way, you grudge yourself every 
dacent tack that goes on your back, let alone yerfeet; — well, ’t won’t be always 
so — for, when yer Mistress Phil Murphy, there shan’t be a belter-dressed girl in 
the parish, of a small farmer’s wife. Any way, you shan’t lose the dance, 
Kate ; for ’t isn’t more than two miles across the bog to my sister’s, and I ’ll 
borrow her shoes for ye — and sure she ’ll be proud to lend ’em. Good-bye,” 
he continued, as he left the cottage, “ God’s blessing be about ye always, my 
own coushla !” 

“ He ’s an honest boy, and a dacent, and, by the same token, a handsome 
one, too,” soliloquised Kathleen, as she peeped through a chink in the cottage 
wall ; then fastening the door, by letting down the latch, and pulling in the 
latch-string, she began arranging her dress for the dance, which the borrowed 
slippers would enable her to attend. The snowy stockings were carefully 
drawn on — the white petticoat and open chintz-cotton gown neatly arranged — 
and her beautiful hair plaited round the tortoise-shell comb, so as to display 
it to the best advantage; nor will I deny (for my heroine was a true woman) 
that she gazed upon her own image as reflected in the cracked looking-glass, 
with much self-satisfaction. Her meditations were, however, soon interrupted 
by a smart knock at the cottage entrance, impatiently repeated. “ He can’t 
be there yet — let alone back,” she thought as she lifted the latch, where, to her 
no small astonishment, a very different person anxiously waited admittance. 
A tall gaunt woman, whose wild and fierce appearance painfully contrasted 
with the mild beauty of the evening landscape, from which the last beams of 
the setting sun were gently departing, leaned against the door-post. Her 
form was partly shrouded in a tattered cloak, which, fastened by a wooden 
skewer at the throat, wrapped the figure to the knees ; a stout leathern belt 
passed across one shoulder, from which a dirty canvass bag was suspended. 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


299 


containing the dole of meal, potatoes, grits, or whatever the kind-hearted 
peasantry could spare from their meagre store; her feet were bare — the scanty 
petticoat reached nearly to the ankles, whose masculine proportions told of 
extraordinary strength : her skin, eyes, and hair, almost betokened foreign 
origin, yet her features were remarkable for the shrewd observant character 
peculiar to the inhabitants of the south of Ireland ; her brow was low and 
projecting, and her sunken eyes appeared condensed, as it were, into the ex- 
pression of a deep and malignant hatred towards all the human race — but, 
when excited by the active passions of rage or revenge, they flashed with the 
rapidity, and almost the brilliancy, of lightning; her head-tire consisted simply 
of a kerchief knotted under the chin, which could not be said to confine her 
dark, matted locks, while it added much to the wildness of her appearance. 
The peaceable cotters considered Mabel O’Neil as a sort of wild woman, and, 
in truth, ceded to her the rights of hospitality more in fear than in love ; for 
it was often whispered that, to the lawless, she was not only an adviser but an 
accomplice, and many things were said of “ Mad Mabel,” in her absence, that 
it would require a good deal of courage even to think of when she was present. 
Kathleen, contrary to her country’s usage, of opening wide the portal when a 
stranger seeks admittance, still held it, and almost trembled when the woman’s 
eye rested upon her with its usual expression. Without speaking, she stretched 
forth her bony arm, and pushed the door so forcibly, that it swung out of Kate’s 
hand ; then she advanced her right foot inside the threshold, and eying the 
maiden wdth much bitterness, said : 

“ And that ’s yer fine breeding, is it, Katy Ryley ? — to stand staring at an 
aged woman outside the door-cheek ! — at one whose head is grey — whose feet 
are sore — whose lips are dry — whose bag is empty — who has neither kin nor 
friend near, to say ‘ God save ye !’ — nor a stick or a stone to set her mark upon 
— where she may lay down her bones and die ?” 

“ Come in, Mabel O’Neil, and welcome,” responded Kathleen, hesitatingly — 
“ sure, agra, it was only the want of thought.” 

“ Silence !” interrupted Mabel, stalking forward, “ silence, girl ! — it is too soon 
for you to have a lie on your lip ; the time will come — must come to you, as 
well as to yer betters, when it ’ll sit as easy there as upon the lip of e’er a lady 
in the land.” 

She sat down upon a three-legged stool, near the chimney-corner, and 
Kathleen filled her a noggin of fresh milk, and presented with it, that luxury 
of Irish life — a piece of white bread. The woman pushed the refreshment 
from her. “ It ’s not come to that wid Mad Mabel, yet,” she mut- 
tered, in a half-audible voice; “to ate the begrudged bit, and drink the be- 
grudged sup.” 

“ Take it, Mabel,” persisted the good-hearted Kate, her pity, excited by 
the worn-out appearance of the wild woman, conquering her fear — “ pray do ; 
and I ’ll get you a shock of father’s new tobacco, and bathe yer feet, that I see 
are sore and cut — the crathurs ! — Do take it.” 


300 MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 

I have often thought the music of Orpheus consisted solely in sounds 
of kindness, addressed to the woodland savages ; its power over the animated 
world is little short of magic. Even that wayward and crime-worn creature 
could not resist the persuasive gentleness of Kathleen’s words. She took the 
wooden vessel from her hand, and, peering into her face, said, “ It ’s a pity to 
look upon ye, ye young fool, and to think that, though the lightning may spare 
ye, the canker won’t. I shouldn’t have been angry wid yer mother’s daughter 
— who knew me before sin — ay first sin, then sorrow — black, bitter, stormy 
sorrow — came over me, and changed me from the light, proud — ay, ’t was the 
pride that did it — but it ’s not asy talking of them things.” 

She paused, and looked moodily on the embers of the turf fire ; and then 
finished, at one draught, the milk which Kate had given her, and turned her 
gaze upon the maiden, who endeavoured, in vain, to arrange the remainder of 
her village dress under the influence of the woman’s ken. 

“ Did ye never hear,” she said, addressing her, after a long silence, — “ did 
ye never hear tell of the countries beyant seas, where a sarpent jist fixes his 
eye upon an innocent bird, and it trembles — trembles — till it falls into its 
mouth? Kathleen Ryley, you are now, for all the world, like that bird, and I 
like that other thing ; — but never heed my cronauning. Come here, to my side, 
and listen. You know ’Squire Johnson — the justice , as he’s called — and ye 
have a sort of a regard for the young lady, yer foster-sister — she’s a fair flower ; 
but the curse o’ the free-hearted is over them, like a thunder-cloud, and a worse 
curse than that , even, over him , and it ’ll burst this very night. And who 
will escape it, unless you bestir yourself, and warn them of their danger ! — and 
it ’s little time there is for that same. See,” and she pointed with her finger to 
the glowing west, “ the sun has sunk this midsummer evening, in red, red glory 
— but the burning of their house will be as bright before the clock goes twelve 
this blessed night l” 

“ Holy Father !” exclaimed the girl, crossing herself devoutly. “ Mabel 
O’Neil, for the sake o’ the mercy you expect ” 

“ I expect mercy !” interrupted the woman, with a fearful laugh, which 
brought the rumour of her insanity fully to the remembrance of the young 
Kathleen ; “ I, the banned, the blighted woman ! — yes — this mercy — here !” 
She threw off her cloak, and bent her almost fleshless figure forward. “ Shall 
I tear away these skreeds , and show you the mercy of the scourgings I got in 
Dublin ? Shall I show you the mercy of five stabs in this withered bosom, 
when I spread wide my arms to save my husband’s life ? Shall I tell ye of 
the mercy showed by a heretic justice to my starving childer ? — to one — my 
brave, brave boy — to myself, when I clung by the black ship’s side, 'that was 
bearing him to the land o’ shame, jist to give him my last blessing — their mercy 
knocked me on the head, as if I was a thing of stone ! Oh !” she continued, 
shrieking wildly, and pressing her hands on her temples, “ I feel it now ; and his 
last, last look, is ever before me l” 

Kathleen’s gentle feelings sympathized with the unfortunate creature ; and, 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


301 


when the paroxysm of her anguish abated, and she saw tears streaming between 
her fingers, again she spoke to her in gentle tones, mingling her soothing words 
with entreaties to be informed of the probable fate that awaited Mr. Johnston’s 
house and property. 

“ Ay, it’s for that ye care, and not for me,” said the woman, at last, groaning 
heavily ; “ if I warn off this burning, ’t is not for the sake o’ mercy , but 
because I know the boys are so beset, by the cowardly red-coats, that, before 
heir job ’ud be half done, they’d be powdered down upon, and kilt at once, 
and, after all, no good done; and there’s one, too, I wish to save from ever 
feeling what racks me to think upon ; but that you can’t understand ; and 
moreover, I ’ve a love for the house, that I knew but too well when the pre- 
sent man was nothin’ but a bit of an agent to the ancient proprietor. Oh, it 
would destroy me entirely, to see the ruin of the place in which I spent my 
innocent days! And often, when my heart’s full of what ye’d think could 
never enter into woman’s bosom, I see a glimpse of the white chimleys, or, 
may-be, the ould turret itself, above the trees; and I cry, and the scalding 
tears take the venom out o’ me ; and then I can pray. Child ! child ! — there 
are many sorts o’ tears ; some that come burning from the brain ; others that 
save the heart from bursting!” She paused, and crossed her hands on her 
bosom ; then, resting her eyes on the ground, continued, in a subdued tone, — 
“ May-be, I ’ve other reasons, too ; only, if a warning could be sent to the ’Squire, 
the boys would get the wind o’ the word, and not attempt it, knowing that he ’d 
be ready for them ; and so both one and other ’ud be saved ; for the time ’s past 
when they could ha’ rid the country o’ these beggarly Cromelians. And nothin’ 
can be done for a while, any way — I tould ’em this — and more ; but I ’m ould 
now, and they never heed me.” 

“ Why didn’t ye tell it at the ’Squire’s yerself I” interrupted the maiden. 

“ Do you indeed think me mad ?” replied the woman angrily. “ D’ ye think 
there’s a big. tree, or a grey stone, about the place, that, when such things are 
a-foot, doesn’t hide a living watch? And when did ye see the descendant of 
Irish kings darken, as a beggar, the door of the usurping English?” She 
stood erect on the cottage floor, and looked around her with mingled pride 
and wildness. 

“ How am I to reach the house alive, if it ’s beset in that way ?” said Kath- 
leen, giving utterance to her fears : “ I ’ll jist wait for Phil Murphy, and we ’ll go 
together.” 

The woman laughed a mad laugh. “ For Philip Murphy, is it?— why, he’s 
the ouldest united man of the set !— that ’s taking a lawyer to guide ye to 
heaven, sure enough !” 

“ ’T is false !” retorted Kathleen, her eyes flashing, and her cheek crimsoning ; 
“ ’t is false ! Philip Murphy would scorn to be a night-walker. He has no com- 
munion with sich ways — I know he hasn’t. And I am ” 

“ A fool !” interrupted Mabel. “ I tell you he has ; and, if he ’s caught, he ’ll 
be hung — and small loss !” 


302 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


“ Ye ’re a bad woman, Mabel O’Neil, and I don’t care for your wicked 
looks a bit now ; but I ’ll make a liar of ye — that I will ! — to slander a dacent 
boy after such fashion ! I ’ll go, this minute, to ’Squire Johnson’s ; and, if any 
harm happens me — if I ’m murdered outright — I ’ll follow ye night and day, 
and ” 

“ That ’s my thanks for saving the worthless lives o’ yer fine friends, and, 
may-be, of yer bachelor ! Ay, go — go ; but stop, as ye hope to live, and do 
well ; take some eggs in this basket — anything, as a cloak ; and swear never — 
but I needn’t make you promise — none of ye ever turned informer .” 

Poor Kathleen did as she was desired ; resumed the despised brogues ; and, 
without speaking another word, or being able even to arrange her thoughts, 
took the path she had, with very different feelings, watched her lover pursue, 
about half an hour before. The hag, who had caused so much consternation, 
was again re-seated, and rocking herself over the embers of the fire ; in a few 
moments, muttering some words of unknown import, she lit her pipe, and, 
slowly rising, departed from the cottage in an opposite direction to that which 
Kathleen had taken. 

It would be difficult to describe the various feelings that agitated the 
bosom of poor Kate, as she thought of Philip, and his uniform correctness of 
conduct ; and, although she had not the intuitive horror of illegal meetings 
that an English girl of her age would have possessed, yet she feared for his 
safety ; and the idea of danger to him was more than she could bear. Could 
she, by any means in her power, prevent his joining the party that night ? 
She knew that the alarm once given, Mr. Johnson had a sufficient number of 
partisans in the country to identify, at all events, some of the conspirators, 
and the beloved of her heart might thus be covered with shame. Should she 
avoid discovering the plot to the ’Squire’s family ? She shuddered to think of 
the dreadful result; and the remembrance of her delicate foster-sister — the 
hours they had spent together in their infancy, rambling by the silver stream — 
or, amid the bending grain, seeking the scarlet poppy, and the blue corn- 
flower : or, in riper years, the numberless times she had climbed the forked 
trees, to gather for the lady-playmate, the early-blossoming sloe, or the 
golden laburnum— the look of affectionate thankfulness, with which the prize 
was received, came again upon her ; and she hastened her steps to save one 
whom she had ever loved. 

The ties of fosterage, in Ireland, are frequently stronger than those of 
kindred ; the foster-sister, or brother, remains, through life, the devoted friend 
— the faithful ally — the obedient servant. In adversity, they shield and 
succour ; and, in prosperity like the humble and affectionate woodbine, what 
they cannot aid or support, they cling to, and perfume by the odour of devoted 
tenderness. 

“ May the Holy Mother direct me !” thought Kate, as she passed into a 
path-way that led to a continuation of corn-fields, rich in their young greenery ; 
and, as she looked beyond them on the solitary landscape, her eye found 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 303 

nought to rest upon, indicative of human habitation, save a long barn, which 
had been constructed as a safe place to stow corn in, during rainy weather, be- 
fore it could be conveniently lodged in the hag-yard. It was a strong building, 
with a widely-opening gate or door ; lonely in its situation, though many a har- 
vest-home had been held within its walls. On Kate journeyed, with a firmer 
step, but an aching heart, until, moving in the distance towards her, she saw a 
figure, which she instantly recognised as that of her lover. 

“ Kate, darling !” he exclaimed, bounding forward : “ Kate, darling ! what 
brought ye this road ? Kate ! What ails my colleen ? Kathleen ! — why do ye 
shrink from me, yer own Philip V 9 He passed his arm round her waist, feeling, 
and almost hearing, the quick throbbings of her heart. She struggled nobly 
with her agitation, while conflicting ideas rushed through her brain, scorching 
and rapid as lightning. But soon, with the ready wit of woman, she exclaimed, 
“Just lead me to that barn-door, and I can sit awhile on the stone that’s be- 
side it — I ’ll soon come round, Phil.” He placed her on the stone ; and, when 
she looked on his kind and anxious countenance, hardly could she imagine that 
he was linked with those whose thirst was for blood. 

“ The stone is could, Phil,” she said, after a pause. 

“ Bad manners to me, that didn’t think of that afore, Katy, darling ! Sure I 
can get ye a nice clean lock o’ straw, off the hurdles inside, to sit upon, if I can 
only pull this great kipeen out of the hasp.” 

No sooner said than done ; the “ kipeen ” was extracted ; but while Philip 
was making his way to the hurdles, that were at the farthermost end of the 
building, Kathleen rushed to the door, closed and hasped it, restoring the fasten- 
ing-stick to its old situation, and hammering it down with all her might. Hav- 
ing ascertained that it was firmly fixed, she flew along her path, almost with the 
lightness and rapidity of a startled lapwing, leaving Philip Murphy in, what she 
considered, safe custody, for that night at least. “ Thank God !” she exclaimed, 
as the turrets and chimneys of the old mansion, that Mabel O’Neil had so loved, 
appeared through the twilight ; then, pausing for breath, she raised her clasped 
hands to heaven, and again repeated, in an earnest tone, “ Thank God !” adding, 
still more fervently, " I will save all.” 

The gable end of the house rested against the ruins of one of those castles 
of the Elizabethan age, so generally scattered over Ireland ; and the chamber 
window of Caroline Johnson, set as it were, in the castle wall, overlooked a 
wild and variegated scene of hill and valley ; while one of the most beautiful of 
Irish rivers bounded, as with a band of molten silver, the distant meadows. 

Caroline had often gazed upon this sweet and varying landscape ; and a 
good deal of romance, produced, perhaps, by the surrounding scenery, mingled 
with her natural character, which, otherwise, would have been more regulated 
and reserved than that of the generality of her fair countrywomen. She might 
be considered alone amid the people, such as they were, with whom she asso- 
ciated — a garden flower blossoming unwillingly amongst wild and uncultivated 
weeds. She w 7 as the youngest and the only surviving child of her father’s 


304 MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 

house, and many wondered how so graceful a stem could have sprung from 
such a root. 

The long French casement of this fair girl’s dwelling, with its white 
draperies and roseate fringe, but ill accorded with the time-worn stones and 
mouldering battlements of the old castle ; while the roses, which she cultivated 
in the deep embrasure of the walls, shed their perfume and their beauty over 
the gigantic ivy and many-coloured lichens. As Kate passed under this fa- 
voured window, she looked up, and saw her beloved foster-sister, as usual, 
busied among her plants. Placing her foot on a slight projection, she seized an 
overhanging branch, and, after one or two successful springs, performed with all 
the agility of a free-footed Irish lass, stood, eggs, and all, on the rustic balcony, 
to the no small surprise of her young lady. When a few minutes had elapsed, 
and Kate’s feelings had vented themselves in tears, as quickly as possible she 
informed her friend of the object of her mission. 

“ Ye see, Miss Car’line, it ’s what they want is to murder, burn, and destroy 
every mother’s soul of the whole of ye — and there ’s no time to be lost ; for 
look — the red flame beams from Knock Mountain, which is as bad as the 
devil’s watchword — God save us ! Whenever that fire lights, you may be sure 
mischief’s going on ; — and there is a long story about that same mountain, 
which I ’ll tell you some day or other ; only now, Miss Car’line, be quick, and 
away to the master, for there ’s no time to lose — and the heart within me sinks 
when I think of the danger.” 

This sensible advice was soon followed, and arrangements were as quickly 
made for defence. The house, in common with many in the county Carlow, at 
the time to which I allude, was well prepared — the men-servants were imme- 
diately armed, and a half-witted, but cunning and faithful, retainer was des- 
patched secretly to the next police station, to give the necessary information. 

Miss Johnson would not, of course, permit Kathleen to hazard a return to her 
cottage that evening ; and, as she often remained with “ her young lady,” the 
circumstance was not likely to excite suspicion. She, however, stayed in her 
foster-sister’s room, and employed her fingers, almost mechanically, in telling 
over the beads that had been her mother’s ; her thoughts — uncontrollable wan- 
derers — doubtless visiting Philip and her father ; and never did Persian worship- 
pers pray more fervently for the presence of their deity, than did both females 
for the speedy approach of morning. 

At length, weak and nervous from watching, Miss Johnson fancied she could 
sleep. ‘‘Can you plait my hair, Kathleen?” she inquired, as the withdrawn 
band unfastened the long tresses that fell, in rich clusters, over her polished 
shoulders. 

“ Sure I can ; I always do my own — not that I ’d be after comparing them,” 
replied the maiden, as she slipped the rosary on her arm, and prepared to divide 
the silken hair. 

“ But I interrupt your prayers.” 

*‘ Oh, no consequence in life, that, Miss ! it’s jist a nice employment when 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 305 

I ve nothin’ particular to do ; and a comfort, somehow, to be thinking that, in 
the hoight o’ trouble and dismay, the Lord’s ear is always open to me, to say 
nothin’ o’ the holy saints, and others. Besides,” she added, sighing deeply, 
“ 1 always say my prayers best on the beads of my poor mother (God be 
good to her!)— when I lay my fingers to them, it’s jist as if she was with me 
herself.” 

“ After all, Ivate, you must be a happy girl ; you have nothing to trouble you 
— no world to please, no ” 

“ Oh, Miss, machree ! it ’s little ye know if ye think that ; sure there ’s my 
father to plase, and the childer to look after, and ” 

“ Philip Murphy to look after,” added Miss Johnson, glancing at her attend- 
ant ; who, it may easily be imagined, had not breathed a word, even to her 
lady, of the barn adventure, or her suspicions concerning Philip. Kate’s fingers 
trembled, and she soon converted what had commenced as a three, into a five, 
plait; so that, at last, Miss Johnson’s patience was exhausted, and she could not 
avoid saying, “ I know you are tangling my hair, Kathleen.” As she looked in 
the glass, that reflected the figures of both, the trifling displeasure she had felt 
was instantly removed on observing that large tear-drops chased each other 
down the poor girl’s cheeks. 

“ No coolness between you and your bachelor, I hope, Kathleen V 9 she added, 
in her kindest voice. 

“Oh, Miss, Miss!” replied, Kate, clasping her hands with. painful earnest- 
ness, “ do not ask me ; I can say nothin’ about him till after the morrow — oh, 
do not ask me !” She then, without uttering another word, flung herself on 
her knees, and told over the beads with all possible rapidity, as if haste 
afforded relief to her overcharged heart. At this moment, the contrast 
between the two girls, so different in rank and appearance, would have been 
highly interesting to any painter of feeling and sentiment : — Miss Johnson, 
part of whose unbraided hair hung negligently around her, pressed her fore- 
head to her hand ; and, as her long, pencilled lashes almost rested on the soft 
roundness of her delicate cheek, the lustre of her clear blue eyes was inter- 
cepted by fast-coming tears, that hung like drops of dew on the gossamer 
webs of morning. She might have reminded one of that exquisite passage in 
Shelley — 

“She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, 

A power, that from its objects scarcely drew 
One impulse of her being — in her lightness 
Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, 

Which wanders through the waste air’s pathless blue 
To nourish some far desert : 

******«•• 

Like the bright shade of some immortal dream 

Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life’s dark stream.” 


39 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


306 

How frequently, in a crowded picture-gallery, do we pass, almost without 
notice, some exquisite gem of art, that, singly in an unadorned chamber, we 
should gaze upon with rapture! Woman, to be loved and valued as she de- 
serves, must be seen and known in solitude — I had almost added, in sorrow. 
The lily’s fragrance is of more value when it blossoms and sheds its perfume in 
the wilderness, than when only one amid a multitude of flowers. 

Another hour had passed, and her slight and graceful figure still reclined 
on the arm of an old-fashioned, high-backed chair ; the full light of a painted 
glowing lamp fell, in all its brightness and varied hues, upon her beautifully- 
shaped head ; her form was the perfection of symmetry, yet shaped in so fairy 
a mould that, in their youthful days, Kathleen used to boast she could carry 
Miss Caroline a mile in one hand, and never know she was there. Kate’s 
round, red arms, sun-burnt skin, as she knelt with her back to the light — her 
tight, trim figure, and rustic dress, showed strangely, combined with the apart- 
ment and its mistress. Still she industriously told her beads ; and, as her 
young lady gazed upon her, she pondered many a painful thought on what 
might be the destiny of both. “ Poor girl !” she ejaculated, “ I thought that 
you, at least, would have been happy. So good a daughter ; so undyingly 
attached to one of your own people — to one, too, of a kind and gentle cha- 
racter ! Why is it ? (and her fair brow lowered and gloomed, as her thoughts 
proceeded) ; — why is it — the feeling that unfolds as womanhood advances, even 
as the petals of the blushing rose expand to the sun, which at first glows and 
encourages, but, when the fragrance is extracted, and the canker has entered 
through their folded leaves, scorches, into a loathed mass of fadedness, what its 
rays at first had cherished — why is it that it leads to misery, and yet we nourish 
it within our bosom ?” She raised her head, an$ shook it, as if to dispel such 
painful feeling ; but was again relapsing, as the workings of her features plainly 
showed, into the same train of thought, when a volley of musketry, followed by 
a shout from the plantations, alarmed both the lady and the peasant ; in- 
stinctively they clung to each other, when a second, from its proximity, terrified 
them still more. Kathleen supported Miss Johnson to her bed, and resumed her 
kneeling position at its side ; again, all was silence. 

The cool, grey light of morning streamed upon the pale and slumbering lids 
of the young lady ; soon, however, her father’s voice called upon her to arise. 
“ It ’s eight o’clock, Carry, and I am going to have an examination of some 
prisoners brought in this morning ; you have now an opportunity of seeing, in 
safety, who these rascals are.” 

She descended to the long, rambling hall, where her father was already 
.seated in due formality; his little rotund person exalted on a high chair of dig- 
nity corresponding with the occasion. Mr. Johnson’s eye, in general, bore the 
expression of calm severity, but when aroused, indicated fierce and dangerous 
passion ; his mouth was the redeeming feature of his countenance — its forma- 
tion full, and even tender — and his smile (when it came) sweetness itself. This 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 307 

singular physiognomy, perhaps, led to the following remarks from two gossiping 
servants who stood at the lower end of the hall. 

“ Och ! and it ’s himself that carries the oak-stick between his eyes, any 
way.” 

“ Hould yer whisht, Nilly ! — sure it ’s his honour that bangs the world for the 
crame o’ sweet smiles , when he has a mind.” 

“ Sour crame, I ’m thinkin’,” retorted the other ; “ but how pale the young mis- 
tress looks, this morning !” she continued, as Caroline and her humble companion 
appeared on the stairs. “Well, sure the master has sweetness enough while he 
has that darlint ; no pride in her — see how she puts her fosterer’s hand under 
her arm as if she was a lady ! — why, Katey Ryley is as pale as herself, only 
her skin is another colour.” 

From the spot where Miss Johnson stood, when these remarks were made, a 
group of Irish motley were presented. “ The man in authority,” seated in 
the high-backed chair, at the foot of the staircase — a huge table before him, 
on which was piled a large collection of law-books, in dingy covers. At his 
right hand, on a low chair, (which, being seated thereon, prevented his chin 
rising much beyond a level with the table), appeared Denny, Dennis, or, classi- 
cally speaking, Dionysius Flannery, the beetle-browed butler and clerk of the 
house of Johnson — employed in wiping the ink out of his pen on the cuff of 
his coat, previous to rendering the same fit for service. Long foolscap lay 
before him ; nor must I forget the well-thumbed prayer-book, kissed, many a 
time and oft, by the false and the true. Dionysius was, or at least, considered 
himself, a man of learning, having travelled, as a poor scholar, the wilds of 
the kingdom of Kerry, and officiated as head-master in the hedge-school of 
Glen-Moyle. He consequently opined that Mr. Johnson had secured a per- 
fect treasure in his person. Towards the centre, the police-sergeant — a tall, 
lanky fellow, with a shock of red, rough hair, and eyes that set at defiance 
all direct rules — stood a little in advance, ready to swear to the depositions 
that had been already taken. Farther back, some four or five policemen kept 
their hands on their arms, notwithstanding that two of the prisoners were firmly 
manacled. One of these, a slight, trembling old man, stood, so as to shield his 
face from the observation of “ the gentry;” the other absolutely grinned with 
an appearance of savage good-nature on the proceedings ; while the third, 
whom everybody recognised as “ Hurling Moriarty of Ballinla,” leaned, with 
folded arms, against a pillar, now glancing at the magistrate, and then at the 
crowd, which nearly filled the hall, and extended beyond the opened door to 
the lawn, and even the plantations in front ; it consisted chiefly of men— some 
with coats — some without ; a few females, eager to ascertain the nature of the 
proceedings, had left their cabins before their hair was snooded, or their cloaks 
fastened ; but the prominent features of the accumulating assembly manifested 
anxiety and uneasiness^ and their murmurs and surmises were, at times, more 
than half audible ; even the countenances of the police, who were scattered 
amid the throng, expressed the same feeling — the same agitation. Moriarty 


308 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


might haver served as the model of an Hercules; his appearance bespoke 
strength — his bearing, fearlessness — compressed lips — dark and penetrating 
eyes — the contour evincing more than common genius, and — alas ! that it should 
be so ! — more than common vice ! When his lips parted, they parted in scorn, 
a movement that was particularly evident as his glance rested on the rotund 
magistrate. His hat had not been taken off on entering the presence; but 
when the young lady descended, and took the seat prepared for her, a little be- 
hind her father, the covering was instantly removed, and the figure resumed a 
respectful position. 

“ Police-sergeant Smith,” commenced the justice, “ what is the reason that 
one prisoner, whom, I regret to say, has so often, I understand, appeared else- 
where, under disgraceful circumstances, should be unmanacled ?” 

“ Plaze yer honour,” replied the sapient sergeant, “ we are always wish- 
ful to avoid the shedding of blood ; and so, knowing that, if this honest 
man ” 

“What do you mean by calling such a scoundrel an honest man in my 
presence V 9 interrupted the magistrate, angrily. 

“ I ax yer honour’s pardon : I didn’t mean to call any one here an honest 
man : only, ye see, in regard of Hurling Morty’s always being known to keep 
his word, either for good or bad ; and, says he, ‘ I ’ll give you my honour as a 
gentleman,’ says he, ‘ that I ’ll not stir hand or fut, only walk aisy into the hall, 
if ye don’t offer to tie me,’ says he.” 

“ That wasn’t all the rason, though, ye slip o’ hazel !” exclaimed the 
Hurler, casting a scornful look at the poor sergeant ; “ you couldn’t tie me — 
no, nor tin of ye together — though ye trapped me as if I was a fox or a 
weasel ; but I have no fear of coming here, for ye can prove nothin’ agin me ; 
— and ” 

“ Sure he murdered me intirely ; — me, yer worship !” shouted a little 
policeman, in the corner, who by dint of fist and elbows, was trying to make 
his way through the crowd ; “ he hot me right over the head — I ’ll swear it, 
your honour.” 

“ Put that down, my fine penman — that I hot him over the head,” observed 
Moriarty, addressing the clerk; “it’s down, is it? — over the head? Well, 
now, ye little, miserable, half-starved morsel, that it would be insult even to the 
trade, such as it is, that owns ye, to call a tailor — ye ’re parjured ! He says I 
hot him over the head, yer honour ; I can prove that it was on the head — a fair, 
firm rap, just to see if it had any brains in it; I ’d scorn to hit anything over the 
head !” 

The mob enjoyed the jest — the little policeman groaned ; while another of the 
party exclaimed, “ Hould yer prate, Barney !— It ’s asy talking wid ye ;— plaze 
yer worship, he made a fair riddle o’ me for the moon to shine through, just wid 
one stroke of his sledge of a fist.” 

“ Och ! and what will I do intirely ? — and the sight of my two good-looking 
eyes as dark as a dungeon, wid the tratement I got from him, and he on his back 


309 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 

at t’ other side the ring fence, after we tripped him — the grate monster !” vo- 
ciferated a third. 

“ Ye ’re all a pack of false-swearing Peelers,” exclaimed an old woman ; 
“ sure it ’s himself that wasn’t there at all, at all, as I ’m ready to prove, if it ’s 
truth ye ’re after, and not law , but ” 

“ Silence in the court, I say !” shouted Dionysius Flannery ; “ were ye niver 
before a magistrate, till now, ye unrooly pack ? Listen, while I read the depo- 
sition to his worship.” 

The deposition set forth, in quaint Irish phraseology — “ that, being aware that 
seditious organization (of course Miss Johnson had taken care that Kathleen 
should not be suspected as the informant), and a most horrible plan for burning 
and murder were meditated, Police-Sergeant Smith, with collected forces, dis- 
persed around Cairn Castle— that, skulking behind the new plantation, they dis- 
covered and took prisoner, Moriarty Sullivan — ” 

“ That ’s one lie ; and the skulking ’s another !” exclaimed Morty, in a deep, 
• firm voice; “ ye didn’t take me; ye snared me, as ye would a hare !” 

“ Mighty like a hare ye are !” replied another policeman, whose head was 
bound in a stocking: “plaze yer honour’s glory, he knocked us clane about like 
young goslings, until little Mike Corish and big Kit, and another boy (big Kit’s 
father, by the same token), got a piece o’ the road afore him, and threw a rope 
on the ground ; and, ye see, he was bating the boys with his pike-handle, and 
his baste of a gun (he hadn’t time but for one volley, yer worship — back- 
wards,) whin we tripped him up, and before he could say ‘Munster,’ we had the 
half of him — his legs — axing yer pardon — safe, — seein’ we twishted and twishted 
the cable round it — ” 

“ Silence !” again vociferated Dionysius, while stifled expressions of — 
“ unfair !” — “ beggarly Peelers !” — “ cursed Orangemen !” — “ fine boy !” — 
“ more ’s the pity !” — and such like, murmured amid the crowd. 

“ Took prisoners, Moriarty Sullivan,” recommenced the clerk, “ Phelim 
Me Gunn, and Philip Murphy — ” 

“ Tis false !” shrieked Kathleen, rushing from behind Miss Johnson’s chair 
(where she had hitherto leaned, a mute but most anxious spectator of the pro- 
ceedings), and confronting the astonished Dinny — “ I say, I know ’t is false ! 
Philip Murphy was not — could not — have been there ! I — I myself locked — ” 
Almost stifled by agitation, she paused for a moment, and then, with firmness, 
added, “ If you took him, where is he ?” 

“ Here, agra !” squeaked the trembling, little old man, “ to my sorrow, 
a coushla — God break hard fortune !” Poor Kathleen staggered towards the 
crowd — looked, for a moment, on the namesake of her lover — and a faint laugh 
sprang to her lip, as she fell senseless into the arms of those who were nearest 
to her. 

“ There’s Kate Ryley’s own Philip Murphy running like mad !” exclaimed a 
neighbour. On the instant, the young man entered the hall, evidently much 
discomposed, and unable to comprehend the proceedings ; and as he stood, for 


310 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


a moment, in the glory of excited and youthful beauty, beside the aged person 
who, it was now understood, bore the same name, the contrast between the two 
turned instantly the quick current of Irish feeling, and a merry burst of 
laughter shook the oaken rafters, even while the sounds of execration lingered 
round the walls. The attention of the police being momentarily diverted, 
Philip Murphy, senior, got rid of his nervous affection, and managed also to 
get rid, in some unaccountable way, of the vile bonds which, it is to be 
suspected, too slightly restrained his motions. Swift as Robin Hood’s own 
arrow, the ci-devant old man darted through the assembly, which, out of pure 
love of what they considered “ fair play,” facilitated his escape. Away he flew, 
amid the applauding and encouraging cheers of the peasantry, and the yells of 
the police. “ Fire ! Dead or alive, bring him back !” shouted the magistrate, 
descending from his chair of state. “ Ye ’d better take heels after him yerself,” 
said Moriarty, in a scornful tone, as he looked down upon the worthy ’Squire, 
who went stumping past him. 

“ Fetch his honour Pangandrum’s boots, can’t ye,” observed another, “ to. 
lengthen his legs a bit ?” “ Look to these two fellows immediately !” inter- 

rupted the enraged justice, while his face bloated and swelled like a turkey- 
cock angered at the sight of a scarlet cloak. “ No need in life for the trouble,” 
replied Moriarty ; “ I said I wouldn’t run, nor I ’m not going to demane my- 
self. I scorn a lie as much, and may-be more, than e’er a lord in the three 
kingdoms. Sorra a thing ye can prove agin me, this turn, that ’ll keep me in 
more than three months — though I ’d rather it was four ; for it’s little I can be 
after these summer evenings, when the nights are so short and so light, and 
the sun keeps blinking about a dale longer than he ought, if he knew manners.” 
The latter part of this speech was lost upon Mr. Johnson, who had hurried 
forward to the hall-door, where a wild and singular scene presented itself. 
The rapidity with which “ Phil Murphy, of Tullagh,” already recognised as 
“ Swift-footed Phil,” a fearless, and, consequently, popular rapparee, proceeded, 
was even less wonderful than the evenness of his steps ; and the sort of flying, 
swallow-like motion which he kept up, as he bowled along the smooth green- 
sward, and sprang, with the lightness of a bird, over the bounds-ditch that 
terminated the ancient lawn. While his pursuers were scrambling up and 
down the tangled enclosure, the culprit made rapid way, first through a clover 
field, then across the undulating ridges of a potato enclosure, rich in its lilac 
and orange blossoms. “ Fire on him !” again vociferated Mr. Johnson ; and 
the long, sandy serjeant took aim, fired, and wounded — not him of the swift 
foot, but a favourite horse of the ’Squire’s, that had strayed, in search of for- 
oidden food, into the enclosure. “ Och ! may ye iver have the same luck!” 
exclaimed several peasant voices at once ; while “ swift-footed Phil,” without 
.essening his speed, threw up his old white wig, in triumph, and then the 
coolen of dark hair, released from its confinement, fell in abundant tresses, 
over his throat and shoulders. At the bottom of the potato-field ran a narrow 
but deep stream, a branch of the river I have before alluded to, the depth and 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


311 


rapidity of which had been greatly increased by recent rains. Into it, how- 
ever, the daring robber plunged, swam like an otter, and in a few moments, 
was on the opposite side. “The coble! — the coble!” exclaimed one of the 
police. They ran towards an old willow, where it was moored, although the 
thickness of its branches effectually concealed the little boat from their sight, 
as the leafy screen seemed rooted in the waters. Before they reached it, 
however, to their utter discomfiture, it glided from its moorings, guided by no 
other than our old acquaintance, Mabel O’Neil, chanting, as she waved and 
kissed her hand, with mock solemnity, to the “ men at arms,” a verse of an old 
ballad^ 

“The boat and the water 
Were made for the free; 

The gaol and the city 
Are fitter for ye.” 

Those who could swim, would not ; those who would, could not. Some, who 
fancied they were competent to the undertaking, got soused and bemired, as a 
punishment for their temerity, and received the jests of a merciless multitude, 
including all the barelegged urchins — all the barking and snapping of collies — 
the taunting of every age and sex, who delighted in beholding the men of law 
and the men of war outwitted. The beldame floated slowly with the stream, 
still singing snatches of an old melody, waving her bony arms in wild and 
fearful attitudes, and intimating, by her gestures, the most perfect contempt 
for those who failed in their attempts to arrest her progress. “ Curse the 
hag!” muttered Johnson, enraged at all the morning’s occurrences, “she’s 
acting in concert with that fellow 7 , and ought to smart for it. Smith, you ’re a 
famous shot ; couldn’t you skim the water, hit the crazy boat, and give the old 
devil a ducking !” “ As easy as kiss my hand, sir,” replied the ruffian, calmly 

arranging his piece for the purpose. As his finger rested on the trigger, one 
of the peasants struck the gun with his stick, evidently anxious to avert the 
shot from its intended object. 

The movement was unfortunate; for the piece went off, and the old woman, 
uttering an agonizing scream, nearly fell over the edge of the boat. “ Good 
God !” exclaimed Mr. Johnson, his better feelings, for a moment, triumphing, 
“ you have struck the woman !” Urged now by their naturally kind and active 
feelings, the peasantry rushed into the water, and soon guided the coble and its 
helpless freight to the rushy margin of the water ; it was sad to see the dark- 
red stream which trickled down its side, and left a dismal track upon the 
rippling wave, as they dragged it to the shore. 

“ I always thought it would end this way,” said the dying woman, while 
speculation faded from her eyes, and the glaze of death appeared beneath their 
distended lids. “ There, boys ; the only thing ye can do for Mabel O’Neil now 7 , 
is to carry her up to the ould castle and let her draw her last breath, within its 
walls.” 

Mr. Johnson advanced towards the party who were preparing to obey her 


312 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


directions, though it is impossible to know whether he intended to forbid or to 
command that those directions should be fulfilled. 

She fixed a look of bitter remembrance and scorn on the magistrate ; and, 
slowly elevating her withered hand, beckoned him to come nearer. He did so. 
She succeeded in raising herself on her elbow, and, with no gentle grasp, drew 
his head so down that her mouth nearly touched his ear. The word, or words 
(they could not have been many), that she uttered, sent a fearful shudder through 
his frame ; his lips quivered and grew pale, his eye deadened within its socket, 
and a change, as extraordinary as it was sudden, passed over his whole coun- 
tenance. He uttered no reply ; no word escaped him, — he but motioned the 
people to follow to his house. 

As the melancholy group approached the mansion, many, who had been 
left in the vestibule, assembled at the portal, and, amongst them, the love- 
beaming face of Kathleen Ryley was easily distinguished. “ I ’ll be even wid 
ye, yet, Kate, for locking me up ; and worse than all, doubting it ’s among such 
I ’d be,” said her lover, fondly ; “ to keep me kicking my heels, the livelong 
night, agin that baste of a door, where I might ha’ been still, but for the good 
Christian who gave me my liberty at last ; and the rats, the crathurs, peepin’ 
and pry in’ at me from their holes — mad angry at my spoiling their supper! 
Kathleen, astore, wherever there is love there ought to be full faith — but, 
whisht, a lanna, — och ! botheration to me intirely for calling a tear to yer 
sweet eye, Kate ; though, darlint,” he added, as the maiden smiled it away, 
“ it made you look more beautiful than ever I see you afore, and that ’s a bould 
word. But wait till I catch that gostering ould Mabel O’Neil, and I ’ll pay her 
off, I ’ll ” 

“ Let her alone, if ye ’re wise, my tight chap,” interrupted the deep voice 
of Hurling .Moriarty ; for, though this conversation had been carried on sotto 
voce between the two lovers, Moriarty caught the last sentence, as he joined 
the group that had accumulated at the door. The party bearing the wounded 
woman had now entered the second gate ; they had been obliged to return by 
a longer path than they had taken during the rapparee’s escape, and one of 
the gossipping sisterhood had only time to observe to Philip Murphy, that 
“ he ’d better not turn his tongue against Mabel O’Neil, while Morty was to 
the fore — as people did say that he was a son, somehow or other, o’ Mabel’s 
own — and it was bad talking ill o’ parents under a child’s breath,” — when 
Mr. Johnson slowly ascended the hall-steps, followed closely by some three or 
four who supported the unfortunate woman. Sergeant Smith had taken ad- 
vantage of the confusion to disappear ; he naturally feared the reaction that 
would take place, in the minds of the peasantry, against the murderer of the 
being who had so long been looked upon with either fear or sympathy by all 
classes, and wisely hastened to the police-barracks for a reinforcement. The 
eagle glance of Hurling Moriarty rested, for a moment, on the ghastly features 
of his reputed mother, and, in an instant, he was at her side. 

With fearful energy he grasped her cold hand, and then they looked into 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 305 

I ’ve nothin’ particular to do ; and a comfort, somehow, to be thinking that, in 
the hoight o’ trouble and dismay, the Lord’s ear is always open to me, to say 
nothin’ o’ the holy saints, and others. Besides,” she added, sighing deeply, 
“I always say my prayers best on the beads of my* poor mother (God be 
good to her !) — when I lay my fingers to them, it ’s jist as if she was with me 
herself.” 

“ After all, Kate, you must be a happy girl ; you have nothing to trouble you 
— no world to please, no ” 

“ Oh, Miss, machree ! it ’s little ye know if ye think that ; sure there ’s my 
father to plase, and the childer to look after, and ” 

“ Philip Murphy to look after,” added Miss Johnson, glancing at her attend- 
ant; who, it may easily be imagined, had not breathed a word, even to her 
lady, of the barn adventure, or her suspicions concerning Philip. Kate’s fingers 
trembled, and she soon converted what had commenced as a three, into a five, 
plait; so that, at last, Miss Johnson’s patience was exhausted, and she could not 
avoid saying, “ I know you are tangling my hair, Kathleen.” As she looked in 
the glass, that reflected the figures of both, the trifling displeasure she had felt 
was instantly removed on observing that large tear-drops chased each other 
down the poor girl’s cheeks. 

“No coolness between you and your bachelor, I hope, Kathleen?” she added, 
in her kindest voice. 

“ Oh, Miss, Miss 1” replied, Kate, clasping her hands with painful earnest- 
ness, “ do not ask me ; I can say nothin’ about him till after the morrow — oh, 
do not ask me !” She then, without uttering another word, flung herself on 
her knees, and told over the beads with all possible rapidity, as if haste 
afforded relief to her overcharged heart. At this moment, the contrast 
between the two girls, so different in rank and appearance, would have been 
highly interesting to any painter of feeling and sentiment: — Miss Johnson, 
part of whose unbraided hair hung negligently around her, pressed her fore- 
head to her hand ; and, as her long, pencilled lashes almost rested on the soft 
roundness of her delicate cheek, the lustre of her clear blue eyes was inter- 
cepted by fast-coming tears, that hung like drops of dew on the gossamer 
webs of morning. She might have reminded one of that exquisite passage irt^ 
Shelley — 

“ She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, 

A power, that from its objects scarcely drew 
One impulse of her being — in her lightness 
Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, 

Which wanders through the waste air’s pathless blue 
To nourish some far desert : 

********* 

Like the bright shade of some immortal dream 

Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life’s dark stream.” 

39 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


306 

How frequently, in a crowded picture-gallery, do we pass, almost without 
notice, some exquisite gem of art, that, singly in an unadorned chamber, we 
should gaze upon with rapture! Woman, to be loved and valued as she de- 
serves, must be seen and known in solitude — I had almost added, in sorrow. 
The lily’s fragrance is of more value when it blossoms and sheds its perfume in 
the wilderness, than when only one amid a multitude of flowers. 

Another hour had passed, and her slight and graceful figure still reclined 
on the arm of an old-fashioned, high-backed chair ; the full light of a painted 
glowing lamp fell, in all its brightness and varied hues, upon her beautifully- 
shaped head ; her form was the perfection of symmetry, yet shaped in so fairy 
a mould that, in their youthful days, Kathleen used to boast she could carry 
Miss Caroline a mile in one hand, and never know she was there. Kate’s 
round, red arms, sun-burnt skin, as she knelt with her back to the light — her 
tight, trim figure, and rustic dress, showed strangely, combined with the apart- 
ment and its mistress. Still she industriously told her beads ; and, as her 
young lady gazed upon her, she pondered many a painful thought on what 
might be the destiny of both. “ Poor girl !” she ejaculated, “ I thought that 
you, at least, would have been happy. So good a daughter ; so undyingly 
attached to one of your own people — to one, too, of a kind and gentle cha- 
racter! Why is it? (and her fair brow lowered and gloomed, as her thoughts 
proceeded) ; — why is it — the feeling that unfolds as womanhood advances, even 
as the petals of the blushing rose expand to the sun, which at first glows and 
encourages, but, when the fragrance is extracted, and the canker has entered 
through their folded leaves, scorches, into a loathed mass of fadedness, what its 
rays at first had cherished — why is it that it leads to misery, and yet we nourish 
it within our bosom ?” She raised her head, and shook it, as if to dispel such 
painful feeling ; but was again relapsing, as the workings of her features plainly 
showed, into the same train of thought, when a volley of musketry, followed by 
a shout from the plantations, alarmed both the lady and the peasant ; in- 
stinctively they clung to each other, when a second, from its proximity, terrified 
them still more. Kathleen supported Miss Johnson to her bed, and resumed her 
kneeling position at its side ; again, all was silence. 

The cool, grey light of morning streamed upon the pale and slumbering lids 
of the young lady ; soon, however, her father’s voice called upon her to arise. 
“ It ’s eight o’clock, Carry, and I am going to have an examination of some 
prisoners brought in this morning ; you have now an opportunity of seeing, in 
safety, who these rascals are.” 

She descended to the long, rambling hall, where her father was already 
seated in due formality; his little rotund person exalted on a high chair of dig- 
nity corresponding with the occasion. Mr. Johnson’s eye, in general, bore the 
expression of calm severity, but when aroused, indicated fierce and dangerous 
passion ; his mouth was the redeeming feature of his countenance — its forma- 
tion full, and even tender — and his smile (when it came) sweetness itself. This 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 307 

singular physiognomy, perhaps, led to the following remarks from two gossiping 
servants who stood at the lower end of the hall. 

“ Och ! and it ’s himself that carries the oak-stick between his eyes, any 
way.” 

“ Hould yer whisht, Nilly ! — sure it ’s his honour that bangs the world for the 
crame o' sweet smiles , when he has a mind.” 

“ Sour crame, I ’m thinkin’,” retorted the other ; “ but how pale the young mis- 
tress looks, this morning !” she continued, as Caroline and her humble companion 
appeared on the stairs. “Well, sure the master has sweetness enough while he 
has that darlint ; no pride in her— see how she puts her fosterer’s hand under 
her arm as if she was a lady ! — why, Katey Ryley i« as pale as herself, only 
her skin is another colour.” 

From the spot where Miss Johnson stood, when these remarks were made, a 
group of Irish motley were presented. “ The man in authority,” seated in 
the high-backed chair, at the foot of the staircase— a huge table before him, 
on which was piled a large collection of law-books, in dingy covers. At his 
right hand, on a low chair, (which, being seated thereon, prevented his chin 
rising much beyond a level with the table), appeared Denny, Dennis, or, classi- 
cally speaking, Dionysius Flannery, the beetle-browed butler and clerk of the 
house of Johnson — employed in wiping the ink out of his pen on the cuff of 
his coat, previous to rendering the same fit for service. Long foolscap lay 
before him ; not* must I forget the well-thumbed prayer-book, kissed, many a 
time and oft, by the false and the true. Dionysius was, or at least, considered 
himself, a man of learning, having travelled, as a poor scholar, the wilds of 
the kingdom of Kerry, and officiated as head-master in the hedge-school of 
Glen-Moyle. He consequently opined that Mr. Johnson had secured a per- 
fect treasure in his person. Towards the centre, the police-sergeant — a tall, 
lanky fellow, with a shock of red, rough hair, and eyes that set at defiance 
all direct rules — stood a little in advance, ready to swear to the depositions 
that had been already taken. Farther back, some four or five policemen kept 
their hands on their arms, notwithstanding that two of the prisoners were firmly 
manacled. One of these, a slight, trembling old man, stood, so as to shield his 
face from the observation of “ the gentry ;” the other absolutely grinned with 
an appearance of savage good-nature on the proceedings; while the third, 
whom everybody recognised as “ Hurling Moriarty of Ballinla,” leaned, with 
folded arms, against a pillar, now glancing at the magistrate, and then at the 
crowd, which nearly filled the hall, and extended beyond the opened door to 
the lawn, and even the plantations in front ; it consisted chiefly of men — some 
with coats — some without ; a few females, eager to ascertain the nature of the 
proceedings, had left their cabins before their hair was snooded, or their cloaks 
fastened ; but the prominent features of the accumulating assembly manifested 
anxiety and uneasiness^ and their murmurs and surmises were, at times, more 
than half audible ; even the countenances of the police, who were scattered 
amid the throng, expressed the same feeling — the same agitation. Moriarty 


308 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


might have served as the model of an Hercules; his appearance bespoke 
strength — his bearing, fearlessness — compressed lips — dark and penetrating 
eyes — the contour evincing more than common genius, and — alas ! that it should 
be so ! — more than common vice ! When his lips parted, they parted in scorn, 
a movement that was particularly evident as his glance rested on the rotund 
magistrate. His hat had not been taken off on entering the presence; but 
when the young lady descended, and took the seat prepared for her, a little be- 
hind her father, the covering was instantly removed, and the figure resumed a 
respectful position. 

“ Police-sergeant Smith,” commenced the justice, “ what is the reason that 
one prisoner, whom, I regret to say, has so often, I understand, appeared else- 
where, under disgraceful circumstances, should be unmanacled?” 

“ Plaze yer honour,” replied the sapient sergeant, “ we are always wish- 
ful to avoid the shedding of blood ; and so, knowing that, if this honest 
man ” 

“What do you mean by calling such a scoundrel an honest man in my 
presence ?” interrupted the magistrate, angrily. 

“ I ax yer honour’s pardon : I didn’t mean to call any one here an honest 
man : only, ye see, in regard of Hurling Morty’s always being known to keep 
his word, either for good or bad ; and, says he, 4 1 ’ll give you my honour as a 
gentleman,’ says he, 4 that I ’ll not stir hand or fut, only walk aisy into the hall, 
if ye don’t offer to tie me,’ says he.” 

44 That wasn’t all the rason, though, ye slip o’ hazel!” exclaimed the 
Hurler, casting a scornful look at the poor sergeant ; 44 you couldn't tie me — 
no, nor tin of ye together — though ye trapped me as if I was a fox or a 
weasel ; but I have no fear of coming here, for ye can prove nothin’ agin me ; 
— and ” 

44 Sure he murdered me intirely ; — me, yer worship !” shouted a little 
policeman, in the corner, who by dint of fist and elbows, was trying to make 
his way through the crowd ; 44 he hot me right over the head — I ’ll swear it, 
your honour.” 

“Put that down, my fine penman — that I hot him over the head,” observed 
Moriarty, addressing the clerk; “it’s down, is it? — over the head? Well, 
now, ye little, miserable, half-starved morsel, that it would be insult even to the 
trade, such as it is, that owns ye, to call a tailor — ye ’re parjured ! He says I 
hot him over the head, yer honour ; I can prove that it was on the head — a fair, 
firm rap, just to see if it had any brains in it; I ’d scorn to hit anything over the 
head !” 

The mob enjoyed the jest — the little policeman groaned ; while another of the 
party exclaimed, 44 Hould yer prate, Barney ! — It ’s asy talking wid ye ; — plaze 
yer worship, he made a fair riddle o’ me for the moon to shine through, just wid 
one stroke of his sledge of a fist.” 

44 Och ! and what will I do intirely ? — and the sight of my two good-looking 
eyes as dark as a dungeon, wid the tratement I got from him, and he on his back 




309 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 

at t’ other side the ring fence, after we tripped him — the grate monster !” vo- 
ciferated a third. 

“ Y e ’ re a h a pack of false-swearing Peelers,” exclaimed an old woman ; 
“ sure it ’s himself that wasn’t there at all, at all, as I ’m ready to prove, if it ’s 
truth ye ’re after, and not law , but ” 

“ Silence in the court, I say !” shouted Dionysius Flannery ; “ were ye niver 
before a magistrate, till now, ye unrooly pack ? Listen, while I read the depo- 
sition to his worship.” 

The deposition set forth, in quaint Irish phraseology — “ that, being aware that 
seditious organization (of course Miss Johnson had taken care that Kathleen 
should not be suspected as the informant), and a most horrible plan for burning 
and murder were meditated, Police-Sergeant Smith, with collected forces, dis- 
persed around Cairn Castle — that, skulking behind the new plantation, they dis- 
covered and took prisoner, Moriarty Sullivan — ” 

“ That ’s one lie ; and the skulking ’s another !” exclaimed Morty, in a deep, 
firm voice ; “ ye didn’t take me ; ye snared me, as ye would a hare !” 

“ Mighty like a hare ye are !” replied another policeman, whose head was 
bound in a stocking: “plaze yer honour’s glory, he knocked us clane about like 
young goslings, until little Mike Corish and big Kit, and another boy (big Kit’s 
father, by the same token), got a piece o’ the road afore him, and threw a rope 
on the ground ; and, ye see, he was bating the boys with his pike-handle, and 
his baste of a gun (he hadn’t time but for one volley, yer worship — back- 
wards,) whin we tripped him up, and before he could say ‘Munster,’ we had the 
half of him — his legs — axing yer pardon — safe, — seein’ we twishted and twishted 
the cable round it — ” 

“Silence,!” again vociferated Dionysius, while stifled expressions of — 
“ unfair !” — “ beggarly Peelers !” — “ cursed Orangemen !” — “ fine boy !” — 
“ more ’s the pity !” — and such like, murmured amid the crowd. 

“ Took prisoners, Moriarty Sullivan,” recommenced the clerk, “ Phelim 
Me Gunn, and Philip Murphy — ” 

“ Tis false !” shrieked Kathleen, rushing from behind Miss Johnson’s chair 
(where she had hitherto leaned, a mute but most anxious spectator of the pro- 
ceedings), and confronting the astonished Dinny — “ I say, I know ’t is false ! 
Philip Murphy was not — could not — have been there ! I — I myself locked — ” 
Almost stifled by agitation, she paused for a moment, and then, with firmness, 
added, “ If you took him, where is he?” 

“ Here, agra !” squeaked the trembling, little old man, “ to my sorrow, 
a coushla — God break hard fortune !” Poor Kathleen staggered towards the 
crowd — looked, for a .moment, on the namesake of her lover — and a faint laugh 
sprang to her lip, as she fell senseless into the arms of those who were nearest 
to her. 

“ There’s Kate Ryley’s own Philip Murphy running like mad exclaimed a 
neighbour. On the instant, the young man entered the hall, evidently much 
discomposed, and unable to comprehend the proceedings ; and as he stood, for 


310 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


a moment, in the glory of excited and youthful beauty, beside the aged person 
who, it was now understood, bore the same name, the contrast between the two 
turned instantly the quick current of Irish feeling, and a merry burst of 
laughter shook the oaken rafters, even while the sounds of execration lingered 
round the walls. The attention of the police being momentarily diverted, 
Philip Murphy, senior, got rid of his nervous affection, and managed also to 
get rid, in some unaccountable way, of the vile bonds which, it is to be 
suspected, too slightly restrained his motions. Swift as Robin Hood’s own 
arrow, the ci-devant old man darted through the assembly, which, out of pure 
love of what they considered “ fair play,” facilitated his escape. Away he flew, 
amid the applauding and encouraging cheers of the peasantry, and the yells of 
the police. “ Fire ! Dead or alive, bring him back !” shouted the magistrate, 
descending from his chair of state. “ Ye ’d better take heels after him yerself,” 
said Moriarty, in a scornful tone, as he looked down upon the worthy ’Squire, 
who went stumping past him. 

“ Fetch his honour Pangandrum’s boots, can’t ye,” observed another, “ to 
lengthen his legs a bit ?” “ Look to these two fellows immediately !” inter- 
rupted the enraged justice, while his face bloated and swelled like a turkey- 
cock angered at the sight of a scarlet cloak. “ No need in life for the trouble,” 
replied Moriarty ; “ I said I wouldn’t run, nor I ’m not going to demane my- 
self. I scorn a lie as much, and may-be more, than e’er a lord in the three 
kingdoms. Sorra a thing ye can prove agin me, this turn, that ’ll keep me in 
more than three months — though I ’d rather it was four ; for it’s little I can be 
after these summer evenings, when the nights are so short and so light, and 
the sun keeps blinking about a dale longer than he ought, if he knew manners.” 
The latter part of this speech was lost upon Mr. Johnson, who had hurried 
forward to the hall-door, where a wild and singular scene presented itself. 
The rapidity with which “ Phil Murphy, of Tullagh,” already recognised as 
“ Swift-footed Phil,” a fearless, and, consequently, popular rapparee, proceeded, 
was even less wonderful than the evenness of his steps ; and the sort of flying, 
swallow-like motion which he kept up, as he bowled along the smooth green- 
sward, and sprang, with the lightness of a bird, over the bounds-ditch that 
terminated the ancient lawn. While his pursuers were scrambling up and 
down the tangled enclosure, the culprit made rapid way, first through a clover 
field, then across the undulating ridges of a potato enclosure, rich in its lilac 
and orange blossoms. “ Fire on him !” again vociferated Mr. Johnson ; and 
the long, sandy serjeant took aim, fired, and wounded — not him of the swift 
foot, but a favourite horse of the ’Squire’s, that had strayed, in search of for- 
oidden food, into the enclosure. “ Och ! may ye iver have the same luck !” 
exclaimed several peasant voices at once ; while “ swift-footed Phil,” without 
.essening his speed, threw up his old white wig, in triumph, and then the 
coolen of dark hair, released from its confinement, fell in abundant tresses, 
over his throat and shoulders. At the bottom of the potato-field ran a narrow 
but deep stream, a branch of the river I have before alluded to, the depth and 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


311 


rapidity of which had been greatly increased by recent rains. Into it, how- 
ever, the daring robber plunged, swam like an otter, and in a few moments, 
was on the opposite side. “The coble! — the coble!” exclaimed one of the 
police. They ran towards an old willow, where it was moored, although the 
thickness of its branches effectually concealed the little boat from their sight, 
as the leafy screen seemed rooted in the waters. Before they reached it, 
however, to their utter discomfiture, it glided from its moorings, guided by no 
other than our old acquaintance, Mabel O’Neil, chanting, as she waved and 
kissed her hand, with mock solemnity, to the “ men at arms,” a verse of an old 
ballad— 

“The boat and the water 
Were made for the free; 

The gaol and the city 
Are fitter for ye.” 

Those who could swim, would not; those who would, could not. Some, who 
fancied they were competent to the undertaking, got soused and bemired, as a 
punishment for their temerity, and received the jests of a merciless multitude, 
including all the barelegged urchins — all the barking and snapping of collies — 
the taunting of every age and sex, who delighted in beholding the men of law 
and the men of war outwitted. The beldame floated slowly with the stream, 
still singing snatches of an old melody, waving her bony arms in wild and 
fearful attitudes, and intimating, by her gestures, the most perfect contempt 
for those who failed in their attempts to arrest her progress. “ Curse the 
hag !” muttered Johnson, enraged at all the morning’s occurrences, “ she ’s 
acting in concert with that fellow, and ought to smart for it. Smith, you ’re a 
famous shot ; couldn’t you skim the water, hit the crazy boat, and give the old 
devil a ducking 1” “ As easy as kiss my hand, sir,” replied the ruffian, calmly 

arranging his piece for the purpose. As his finger rested on the trigger, one 
of the peasants struck the gun with his stick, evidently anxious to avert the 
shot from its intended object. 

The movement was unfortunate ; for the piece went off, and the old woman, 
uttering an agonizing scream, nearly fell over the edge of the boat. “ Good 
God !” exclaimed Mr. Johnson, his better feelings, for a moment, triumphing, 
“ you have struck the woman !” Urged now by their naturally kind and active 
feelings, the peasantry rushed into the water, and soon guided the coble and its 
helpless freight to the rushy margin of the water ; it was sad to see the dark- 
red stream which trickled down its side, and left a dismal track upon the 
rippling wave, as they dragged it to the shore. 

“ I always thought it would end this way,” said the dying woman, while 
speculation faded from her eyes, and the glaze of death appeared beneath their 
distended lids. “ There, boys ; the only thing ye can do for Mabel O’Neil now, 
is to carry her up to the ould castle and let her draw her last breath, within its 
walls.” 

Mr. Johnson advanced towards the party who were preparing to obey her 


312 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 

directions, though it is impossible to know whether he intended to forbid or to 
command that those directions should be fulfilled. 

She fixed a look of bitter remembrance and scorn on the magistrate ; and, 
slowly elevating her withered hand, beckoned him to come nearer. He did so. 
She succeeded in raising herself on her elbow, and, with no gentle grasp, drew 
his head so down that her mouth nearly touched his ear. The word, or words 
(they could not have been many), that she uttered, sent a fearful shudder through 
his frame ; his lips quivered and grew pale, his eye deadened within its socket, 
and a change, as extraordinary as it was sudden, passed over his whole coun- 
tenance. He uttered no reply ; no word escaped him, — he but motioned the 
people to follow to his house. 

As the melancholy group approached the mansion, many, who had been 
left in the vestibule, assembled at the portal, and, amongst them, the love- 
beaming face of Kathleen Ryley was easily distinguished. “ I ’ll be even wid 
ye, yet, Kate, for locking me up ; and worse than all, doubting it ’s among such 
I ’d be,” said her lover, fondly ; “ to keep me kicking my heels, the livelong 
night, agin that baste of a door, where I might ha’ been still, but for the good 
Christian who gave me my liberty at last ; and the rats, the crathurs, peepin’ 
and pryin’ at me from their holes — mad angry at my spoiling their supper! 
Kathleen, astore, wherever there is love there ought to be full faith — but, 
whisht, a lanna, — och ! botheration to me intirely for calling a tear to yer 
sweet eye, Kate; though, darlint,” he added, as the maiden smiled it away, 
“ it made you look more beautiful than ever I see you afore, and that ’s a bould 
word. But wait till I catch that gostering ould Mabel O’Neil, and I ’ll pay her 
off, i nu ” 

“ Let her alone, if ye ’re wise, my tight chap,” interrupted the deep voice 
of Hurling Moriarty ; for, though this conversation had been carried on sotto 
voce between the two lovers, Moriarty caught the last sentence, as he joined 
the group that had accumulated at the door. The party bearing the wounded 
woman had now entered the second gate ; they had been obliged to return by 
a longer path than they had taken during the rapparee’s escape, and one of 
the gossipping sisterhood had only time to observe to Philip Murphy, that 
“ he ’d better not turn his tongue against Mabel O’Neil, while Morty was to 
the fore — as people did say that he was a son, somehow or other, o’ Mabel’s 
own — and it was bad talking ill o’ parents under a child’s breath,” — when 
Mr. Johnson slowly ascended the hall-steps, followed closely by some three or 
four who supported the unfortunate woman. Sergeant Smith had taken ad- 
vantage of the confusion to disappear ; he naturally feared the reaction that 
would take place, in the minds of the peasantry, against the murderer of the 
being who had so long been looked upon with either fear or sympathy by all 
classes, and wisely hastened to the police-barracks for a reinforcement. The 
eagle glance of Hurling Moriarty rested, for a moment, on the ghastly features 
of his reputed mother, and, in an instant, he was at her side. 

With fearful energy he grasped her cold hand, and then they looked into 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 313 

each other’s countenances, as only parent and child can look, when the tie — 
the first, and the dearest — is about to be broken — and for ever. In another 
moment, his ken wandered over the assembly, inquiring of her who had done 
the deed ; and, almost unwittingly, perhaps, her look rested on the magistrate, 
who had entered the hall, thrown off his hat, and, having covered his burning 
brow with his hands, remained leaning against one of the oaken supporters of 
the ancient structure. 

It was enough a bound, that for certainty of destruction, could be likened 
to nothing but the fatal spring with which the young and infuriated tiger 
fastens on its prey, brought Moriarty to the side of the defenceless gentleman. 
With both hands he grasped his throat, and so appalled were even Mr. John- 
son’s own partisans, by the suddenness and violence of the action, that his 
death would have been certain, had not Mabel O’Neil, with a strong and 
desperate effort, staggered forward, seized her son’s arm, dragged him with her 
almost to the marble floor, on which she fell, and exclaimed, in a low, but 
audible voice, “ Morty, Morty, as you value yer mother’s last blessing — as you 
fear yer mother’s dying curse, — loose, loose yer hould, I say ! — it is yer father 
ye would murther!” 

He did, indeed, relax his grasp, and the swollen and discoloured features 
of the unfortunate Johnson plainly showed that, in a few seconds, Moriarty’s 
forbearance would have been too late. He would have fallen, had not his 
daughter, attracted to the hall by the crowd and struggle, caught him in her 
arms, and, with Kathleen’s aid, supported him to a seat. If a bullet had 
passed through the young man’s brain, he could not have appeared more sub- 
dued ; — the fires of his eye w r ere quenched, his arms hung powerless in their 
sockets, and he sank with a deep-drawn groan, on his knees by his mother’s 
side. “ Morty,” she said, still more faintly, “ ye had no right to have any 
hand in sich a burning as was intended — I tould ye so, but ye wouldn’t heed 
me ; my heart warmed to the ould place, as the limb of ivy that the light- 
ning blasted on its walls, still clings to the same spot; moreover, I couldn’t 

bear ye to lift a finger against him, who, perjured as he is, is still yer ” 

father, she would have added, but her son’s feelings burst forth. “ Do not say 
the black word again, mother,” he exclaimed furiously ; “ if I am his son, what 
must you be ?” 

« Listen, James Johnson, to that !” said the wretched woman, dragging her 
body — as a wounded serpent trails its envenomed length along the earth — 
towards the magistrate’s seat ; “ didn’t the sound o’ that go to yer heart ? — the 
upbraidings of a child to its own parent, when that parent is in the agonies o’ 
death ! But though ye ’ve murdered me, the curse is over ye still !” she con- 
tinued, the bitter expression of countenance I have before mentioned returning 
tenfold, and revenge lighting in her sunken eye, like the red lamp within the 
sepulchre : “ do ye remember it 1 I ’ll tell it ye again — the whole — there ’s life 
in me yet for the whole of it. In those days this was yer employer’s house, 
but ye earned his gould, and then he borrowed it, and ye lent him back his 
40 


314 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


own — ye may well turn pale, it ’s all true. I was his lady’s chosen favourite — 
she tendered me as if I had been a noble child ; you won me to your purposes 
— you got me to betray trust ; and, when that was done, you turned upon me 
— you poisoned her heart agin’ me. In an hour of madness I tould o’ your 
wickedness — I was asked for proofs — I had none — she turned me out — the 
snow fell — the rain poured — I deserved it all from her . But, under the end 
wall, where the ivy is still green, and yer daughter tends her flowers — do ye 
mind that meeting, when the boy that scorns to own ye leaped within me — 
when the feelings of a young mother warmed about my heart ? Ye met me 
there — there ye spurned and scorned me ; and, to save myself from everlasting 
blight — to save my mother’s heart from breaking, I there promised that as a 
screen to my sin, I would marry him who since turned a shame to earth, and 
whose children were born both to that and sorrow. Still they were my chil- 
dren, and God in heaven knows what I ’ve suffered for them. Then — then, when 
I clung to your knees to bid ye farewell, and when, like a true woman, I could 
ha’ blessed ye, even in my misery — for the thought of yer happiness was ever 
foremost in my mind — at that moment, ye threw me from ye — ye called me by 
the name that rings on woman’s ear to everlastin’ when she deserves it ; then 
on the snow I knelt — I cursed ye from my heart’s core — my love turned to 
poison, both for you and myself. I knew the people would call ye fortunate ; 
and I prayed that the riches ye should get, might secure to yer soul damnation 
— that the higher ye rose, the more should the finger o’ scorn point at ye — 
that ye might be the father o’ many honest childer, and that, when they were 
most bright and beautiful, ye might follow them to their graves, and die a 
childless man ! And didn’t I” — as she spoke, the fiend seemed to take posses- 
sion of her once fine form, and deep and terrible shadows gathered over her 
discoloured brow — “ didn’t I travel, unknownst, many a weary mile, to hear 
the stones clatter on their coffin-lids? And when your innocent son was mur- 
thered from spite to his father, weren’t the tears that rolled down yer cheeks, 
like hail-drops, refreshing to me as the May-dew that falls on the summer 
flower? — and sure, the young craythur that ’s trembling there, like the blasted 
meadow-sweet, is dying fast, fast — and so am I— — ” Her voice sank, and the 
last words were faint and murmuring, as the breath of a fierce but expiring 
hurricane. 

“Blessed Mary!” exclaimed Kathleen, “will nobody run for Father Delany * 
that he may make her soul?” — and the kind-hearted girl knelt at her side, and 
held the crucifix to her separated and ghastly lips. Moriarty, whose bitter 
feelings could find no utterance, clasped bis hands in agony to implore her bless- 
ing. Feebly she muttered — they knew not what; then, turning her face to the 
ground, and, while literally biting the dust, her erring but powerful spirit 
departed from its dwelling of sin and suffering. 

It might be some five or six years after this real and frightful tragedy, that, 
in a cottage more comfortable than Irish cottages are in general, an interesting 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


315 


peasant group were assembled round a clear turf fire. A young and comely 
matron was occupied in undressing a fine and beautiful boy, while her husband 
amused himself in deciphering the contents of a somewhat ancient newspaper; 
the wife glanced from the babe to her husband, with that sweet expression of 
proud and satisfied affection that can only rest on the countenance of a happy 
married woman, when she gazes on earth’s greatest blessings— an affectionate 
husband, and a blooming child. Smilingly she pushed back the little round 
curls that were just beginning to cluster on her son’s fair brow ; and, again 
looking at her husband, observed, “ Phil, honey, the boy grows mighty like you, 
I’m thinking — he’s yer very moral just about the eyes; there, he wants to 
kiss his own daddy before he goes to sleep ! Philip, what ails ye, that ye don’t 
notice the child? — ain’t ye well, astore?” Philip Murphy deliberately laid 
down the paper, took the cherub-boy in his arms, hid his face on its little 
bosom ; and while, with the sweet untutored affection of infancy, the babe 
played with the longer and deeper curls of his father’s hair, he murmured so 
earnest, and even eloquent a prayer, that God would preserve it from sin and 
shame, that the mother’s heart overflowed, and tears of tenderness rolled down 
her cheeks. As she took the delighted boy from his father’s arms, she could 
not help saying, “ That was a mighty fine prayer, Phil, and all out o’ yer own 
head, I’m sure, for neither priest nor minister could make it for ye — clean up 
from the heart like that ; it ’s a murdering pity, Phil, ye warn’t a priest, for the 
sarmints would ha’ come quite natural to ye.” 

“ Then you should have been a nun, Kate,” replied the husband smilingly, yet 
not as cheerfully as was his wont ; “ and that wouldn’t have been much to yer 
taste, would it, now ?” 

“ I never thought o’ that,” said she, laughing. 

“ Then ye ’re not so quick-witted as ye were the night ye locked me up in 
the long barn, ye mind.” 

“ Philip, agra !” replied she, seriously, “ I never can abide the thoughts o' that 
night.” 

“ Nor I, neither,” sighed Philip, ** only something I ’ve just read on the paper 
makes me think of it.” 

“ And what would be on the paper, Phil?” inquired Kathleen, anxiously; at 
the same time rocking herself backwards and forwards, to “ hushow” the baby 
to sleep. 

“ Two things very queer to come together then, Kate ; the death of that bad 
man, Mr. Johnson — a dale about him that’s not thrue — and ” 

“ Not thrue !” repeated Kathleen ; “ sure I thought whatever was on a news- 
paper was as thrue as gospel !” 

« Small is yer knowledge, then, my darlint, and so best — I hate a knowing 
woman ; but I tell ye — ajid I hard it from one who understands it right well — 
that the half and more o’ the papers are made up o’ big lies; and sure here’s 
a proof of it — when he that was forced to fly the country (for ye know, after the 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


316 

ripping up Mabel O’Neil, as they called her, made afore us all, and, more espe- 
cially, after the death o’ that sweet angel daughter, Miss Car’line, he couldn’* 
stand it at all, at all), is praised up in black and white, as 4 a zealous,’ — that 
means useful, you understand — 4 a zealous and good magistrate.’ ” Poor Kath- 
leen threw up her eyes in silent astonishment. 

44 The begrudged thing never does good,’’ she said at last ; 44 and what 
comes over the devil’s back ” 44 True for ye, Kate,” exclaimed the hus- 

band, who knew the proverb well, and, therefore, I suppose, did not permit his 
wife to finish it ; 44 but the other thing is, that Sergeant Smith, ye mind, who 
would have been hung for shooting that unfortunate woman, only for the 
power o’ the party, and the bribery o’ Mr. Johnson (who certainly had good 
right to get him off, seeing he instigated him to do it — though every one clears 
him of knowing, at the time, who Mabel was), was hung at Kilmainim, for 
murderin’ some man or other out in the main ocean — so there ’s an end to him, 
any way.” 

44 The Lord preserve us all, and keep us just and honest !” ejaculated 
Kathleen, crossing herself with one hand, and pressing her child more closely 
to her bosom with the other ; adding, after a pause, 44 1 often heard that 
’Squire Johnson ought to have committed Morty to prison, though he was his 
son, as he was took under arms ; that might be law, but there wouldn’t be 
much natur’ in it.” 

44 1 don’t know how it was settled,” answered the husband : 44 sure the justices 
manage the law, and not the law the justices ; only Morty went clean off out o’ 
the country, and I was glad of it ; it was the only chance he had — for he had 
some good in him, I ’ve heard ; and though the black drop couldn’t but run in 
his veins, yet trouble and knowledge might get it out, ye know.” 

44 Phil, I want to ask ye,” observed Kathleen, after a pause, 44 as ye ’re a 
knowing man, if ye really think it was Mabel’s curse that brought all the misery 
on the ’Squire’s family 

44 A curse is a bad thing, Kate, more particklar when it ’s desarved ; but I 
have heard that a curse made again’ the innocent is turned, by the breath of 
heaven, again’ one’s self ; however, it ’s ill mindin’ sich things, only to keep 
one’s own heart pure ; her curse came there, for a sartinty, and it ’s almost a 
by-word now — 4 As bitter as Mabel O’Neil’s curse.’ Riches were a curse to 
him ; the higher he got, the more was the finger o’ scorn pointed at him, for he 
hadn’t the gentlemanly turn about him ; and, though the father o’ many childer, 
he died childless. Temptation is bad, so God keep us from it, or teach us how 
to overcome it. Howsom’ever, all he got is gone to the bad, long ago — the devil 
never grants long leases.” 

“Poor Miss Car’line!” ejaculated Kathleen, “she never rightly recovered 
that day — though, to be sure, it was a blessed thing that the son was saved from 
the sin o’ the father’s blood ; the flowers I planted over her grave last May are 
n blossom again, and it crushes my heart to look at them, for she was a raal 


MABEL O’NEIL’S CURSE. 


317 


gentlewoman, one o’ God’s own makin’, jist let down from the holy heavens, to 
show us what angels are ; the delight of my heart you war’ Miss, avourneen ! 
only, I often think, too sweet and gentle for this world’s ways. I ’d ha’ gone to 

death for you, willingly, any day ” 

“ There, darlint,” said Philip, anxious to terminate so painful a reminiscence, 
“ put the bov to bed, and, as it ’s fine moonlight, we’ll take a walk over the field, 
to see yer father.” Kathleen passed her hand across her eyes, and prepared to 
fulfil her husband’s wishes (which, by some strange sympathy, were generally 
her own), while he continued, “ the poor man’s getting ould now, darlint, yet 
there ’s none of his childer gladdens his heart like you ; and, after all, the best 
way to keep off a curse is not to desarve it.” 




KELLY THE PIPER. 


d -MACU 5CR.A Del. 



UDY — Judy Kelly — Judy! — will ye give us no 
breakfast to-day — and the sun splitting the trees 
these two hours ? — and the pig itself — the cratur — 
skreetching alivb wid the hunger V 9 

“ Och, it ’s true for ye, Mick, honey ! — true for 
ye — and the pratees are almost done — and yon’s 
Ellen. She carries the pitcher so lightly, that it ’s 
little milk she ’s got from the big house, this fine 
harvest morning.” 

And Mistress Kelly “ hourisht” the pig out of the 
cabin — placed three noggins on an old table that 
she pulled from a dark corner (there was but one 
window in the room, and that was stuffed with the 
Piper’s coat, in lieu of glass), wiped the aforesaid 
table with the corner of her “ praskeen,” and, from 
another corner, lifted the kish, at served to wash, 

( 318 ) 




' 



KELLY THE PIPER. 319 

strain and “ dish” the potatoes, feed the pig, or rock the child, as occasion 
might require. 

Judy Kelly was certainly one of the worst specimens of an Irish woman I 
had ever the duty of inspecting. She never washed her face except on 
Sundays ; and then it always gave her so bad a cold in her head-on account 
(to use her own words) “ of the tinderness of her skin” — that she was obliged 
to cure it with liberal draughts of whiskey — the effects of which rendered Judy 
(at other times a peaceable woman) the veriest scold in Bannow. Poor Kelly 
always anticipated this storm, and on Sunday evening mounted his miserable 
donkey — miscalled Dumpling (a name, however, which might have been appro- 
priated before he took service with his present master), and, with pipes under 
arm, posted to St. Patrick — the most respectable “ shebeen-shop” on the moor — 
and finished the night ; sometimes with a comfortable nap by the road-side, or 
on a sand-bank. The most delightful sleep he ever had was one night, when 
Dumpling, being, I suppose, tipsy, like her master, fell, ascending a nice, muddy 
hill, and, unable to rise, remained on her knees, until Pat Furlong discovered 
them both, early one Monday morning ; Kelly loudly snoring, the glorious sun 
casting a flood of light over a visage thin, yellow, and ghastly — except a long, 
pointed, crimson nose, with a peculiar twist at the end, which assumed a richer 
colouring, shading to the very tip in deep and glowing purple ; the bagpipes still 
tightly grasped under the “ professor’s” arm. 

The family of this village musician was managed like many Irish families — 
that is, was. not managed at all; indeed the habits of the parents precluded even 
the possibility of the children’s improvement in any way ; they moved about, a 
miscellaneous mass of brown-red flesh, white teeth, bushy elf-locks, which rarely 
submitted to the discipline of a comb and party-coloured rags ; yet were, never- 
theless, cheerful, strong, and healthy. Clooney evinced much musical talent, 
which served as an excuse for idleness, uniform and premeditated. Molly 
was the best jigger for ten miles round ; and Ellen would have been a 
pretty, roley-poley, industrious gipsy, if she had not been born to the lazy in- 
heritance of the Kelly household ; as it was, she did more than all the brats 
put together; and, as her little bare feet puddled through the extraordinary 
black mud, which formed a standing pool around the stately dunghill that 
graced the door, she was welcomed by her father’s salutation — “ The top o’ the 
morning to my colleen! — little to fill the noggins ye’ve got wid ye; well, 
niver mind, clane water ’s wholesome, and lighter for the stomach, may-be, nor 
milk ; any way, the pratees are laughing, and I must make haste for once : 
where’s Molly ?” 

“ She’s just stept out to look after her pumps, for the pathern ; but niver heed, 
we ’ll not wait,” replied Mrs. Kelly, pouring the potatoes into the kish. 

“ It ’s little use, thin, mother honey, ther ’ll be for pumps, or pipes, or shil- 
lalahs, this harvest ; for there ’s black news for the boys and girls, and it ’s my- 
self was sorry to hear it ; — there ’s to be no pathern.” 

“ No pathern !” screamed Mrs. Kelly, letting half the pot&toes fall on the 


320 


KELLEY THE PIPER. 


floor, to the advantage of the pig, who entered at the lucky moment, and made 
good use of his time ; while Kelly stood with open mouth, ready to receive 
the one he had dexterously peeled with his thumb-nail; — poor man, he was 
petrified; the pattern, where, man and boy, he had played, drank, and 
quarrelled, in St. Mary’s honour, for thirty years ; the pattern, with its line 
of “ tints,” covered with blankets, quilts, and quilted petticoats, its stalls glitter- 
ing with gingerbread husbands and wives for half the country ; the pattern, 
where his seat, a whiskey-barrel, was placed under a noble elm, in the middle 
of the firm greensward, where the belles and beaux of the neighbouring hills 
had footed gaily, if not gracefully, to “ Moll Row,” “ Darby Kelly,” or “ St. 
Patrick’s Day,” until the morning peeped on their revellings, for more than a 
double century ! 

“ It ’s impossible, ye little, lying hussy ! — who dare stop the pathern ? — the 
pathern, is it, in honour of the holy Vargin; for what ’ud they stop it? — 
there niver was even a bit of a ruction at the pathern o’ Bannow, since the 
world was a world ; ye wicked limb, tell me this moment who tould ye 
this news ?” 

Ellen looked at her father, and, knowing it was a word and a blow with 
him when he was in a passion, meekly replied — that Pat Kenessy, the land- 
lord of “ St. Patrick,” had been turned off the pattern field, when in the act 
of striking the tent poles, to be ready for the next day, by Mister Lamb, the 
’Squire’s Scotch steward ; and that Mister Lamb had informed Kenessy that 
his master would not permit any pattern to be held on his estate, as it only 
drew together a parcel of vagabonds, occasioned idleness and quarrels among 
men and women, and flirtation and courtship among girls and boys ; and that 
a constable was waiting to take the first man to Wexford jail who pitched 
a tent. 

Poor Kelly ! — at first he would not believe it : but some of the neighbours 
confirmed the information, and soon a council assembled in his cabin, to con- 
sider what measures ought to be adopted : the peasantry could not bear to give 
up quietly the only amusement they enjoyed during the year. 

“ That ’s what comes o’ the ’Squire’s living so long in England,” said Blind 
Barry ; “ I thought little good it would end in, when he said, t ’other day, that 
my cabin, must be whitewashed every six months.” 

“ He threatened to turn my dunghill into the ditch,” cried the wrathful Piper 
— “ but if he dares to lay his finger on it — ” 

“ Don’t fear,” said Mickey the tailor, who possessed great reputation, both as 
a wit and a sage, and who did not enter regularly into the conference, but 
stood leaning against the door-post — “ don’t fear ; great men don’t like to dirty 
their fingers with trifles.” 

“ It ’s long afore his uncle would have done so ; but the good ould times is 
past, and there ’s no frinds for poor Ireland now,” sighed Paddy Lumley, an 
old, white-headed man, more than eighty years of age. 

“ It ’s hard, very hard though,” continued Kellv ; “ he knows well enough 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


321 

that the trifle I gets at the pathern for my bits o’ music, is all I have in the 
wide world to depind on for the rint ; and sure it ’s little I picks up the 
country round to keep the skreeds on the woman and childer — God help thim ! 
— to say nothin o’ the atm’ and drinkin’ ; but niver mind ; if there’s no 
pathern, my curse be upon him and his!— may the grass, and the nettle, and 
the ” 

“Asy, asy, Kelly !” cried the tailor — “ asy, take it asy; can’t ye think — 
never despair, says I ; and so I said to Jim Holloway, whin his wife died ; never 
despair, says I ; he took my advice, and married agin in three weeks. Why 
won’t one field do ye instead of another ? Can’t ye borrow another place for 
the day, man alive V 9 

“ Did ye ever hear such gumshogue V’ cried Blind Barry — “ who ’d gainsay 
the ’Squire, d’ye think ? Which of his tinants would say ay to his nay, and 
have a turn-out, or a double rint, for their punishment V 9 

“ Barry, will you whisht ! Listen to me, Kelly, and we ’ll have the pathern 
yet. Clane yerself, and go up to the big house to Mister Herriott ; he’s an ould 
residenter, and has a heart to feel for, and a hand to relieve, the poor man’s 
sorrow ; let him know the rights of it, and I ’ll go bail, he ’ll lend you some field 
of his own. And as to the ’Squire, you know he does not care a brass farthin’ 
for him, on account of the half-acre field they two went to law about ; I hear 
say it cost them, one way or ’t other, a clear seven hundred ; and the field itself 
not worth a traneen ; but that ’s neither here nor there.” 

“ Mick,” said Kelly, “ you have it ! — by the powers, I ’ll go off straight : to 
be sure, if we have a pathern, it ’s little matter where, excipt that it ’s pleasure 
for the girls to dance on the same sod their mothers danced on afore them ; but 
nivir mind — won’t some of ye come to back me ?” 

“ No occasion in life for that ; but we ’ll go wid ye to the gate, and hear the 
luck when ye come out.” 

Kelly was soon ready, and set off on the embassy in high spirits ; as they * 
journeyed, they talked over the matter more at length, suggested a variety of 
fields and meadows, and told the story to all they met. The Irish, careless of 
their time, are ever ready to “ tell or hear some new thing,” and Kelly’s train 
became almost a troop, before it arrived at the hill which overlooked Mr. 
Herriott’s small but beautiful domain. 

It was, indeed, very beautiful : the old mansion, with its tall white chimneys, 
bursting from a thick grove of many coloured foliage that, early in August, was 
deepening into the brown of autumn ; the long straight line of trees that 
marked the avenue, and the bright, blue sea in the distance, reflecting a cloud- 
less sky ; the hill, sloping gradually down to the back of the house, which 
hough not exactly a common, was rendered nearly so by the kindness of 
its possessor, who gave grass to half the lazy cows and troublesome pigs in 
the "parish. 

“ We can see the sign of the Welsh coast, the day ’s so clear,” said Mick. 

41 


322 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


“ The dickons drive it back, say I ! — the Welsh and English are all foreigners 
alike ; and it ’s o’ them all the bother comes,” retorted Kelly. 

“ How dark the mountain of Forth looks ! Do you remimber once when it 
looked bright, Jim V? said Hurling Jack to a tall, powerful man, who strode fore- 
most of the party. 

“ Do I not ! The red-coats were in the hollow, and the boys on the hill ; 
they covered it like a swarm o’ bees. Och ! if we had but attacked thim as I 
wanted, not a mother’s son would have lived to tell the story ; but they got to 
the whiskey and the pipes, and the reinforcement came up, and it was all over. 
Kelly, I remimber you were blind with the drink, and yet ye kept on playing 
for the dear life — 

i We ’ll down wid the orange, and up wid the green, 

Success to the croppies wherever they ’re seen !’ ” 

“ Whisht, Jim, whisht !” cried Kelly, looking about, quite frightened ; “ how 
do you know who’s listening ? — and as I ’m a sinner yon ’s the master down in 
the glin, looking as mild as new milk.” 

“ How can ye tell how he looks, and his back to ye, ye nataral ?” slyly in- 
quired the tailor ; “ but I ’m sorry he is there, for I thought we might have taken 
the short cut through the round meadow.” 

“We may do that still,” replied Kelly, “for his honour’s too much the 
jentleman to look back whin once on the road ; and there ’s others know that 
as well as me, I ’m thinking ; for I see Biddy Colfer turning her two-year- 
ould calf in, through the gap; well, that bates all — and she only a Kerry 
woman !” 

Kelly and his friends were, in some measure, disappointed. They certainly 
took the short cut, and his honour did not look back, but he did as bad ; he 
seated himself deliberately on the wheel of a car that was turned upside down 
in the ditch-side, and answered all the purposes of gate and turnstile ; whistled 
two rambling spaniels to his side, to share the caresses so liberally bestowed on 
Neptune, a huge Newfoundland dog, who disdained frolic and fun of all 
description, and looked up in Mr. Herriott’s face, with an owl-like gravity, 
that made it doubtful whether his steadiness proceeded from sagacity or 
stupidity. As the crowd advanced, he drew still closer to his master’s side, 
and in low, sullen growls expressed much displeasure at so ill-dressed a troop 
approaching the avenue. 

“We are in for it,” whispered Kelly, in a low voice, “ so we may as well put 
a bould face on it at once and spake all together.” 

In another moment Mr. Herriott was surrounded by the bareheaded com- 
pany; Kelly, and Mickey the tailor, a little in advance. 

“ Every blessing in life on yer honour ! — and proud are we all to see yer 
honour looking so fresh and bravely this fine morning.” 

“ Kelly, is it you ? — and Mick ? — and — why, what earthly business brings 
such a gang of you here ? Have I not warned you over and over again, not 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


323 


to make your confounded paths across the clover field ? And I see half the 
barley is destroyed before the sickle can be put to it, from your everlasting 
trespasses.” 

“ Is it? Oh, then, more’s the pity, to say nothin o’ the shame !” exclaimed 
the Piper, looking very sorrowful : “ but we had no intintion in life to tres- 
pass; only we saw yer honour from the top o’ the hill, and as we had a 
little business wid yer honour, to save time, and not to trouble ye at the house, 
we thought it best to take to the path. We’ve not done a taste of harm, yer 
honour.” 

“ Well, Kelly, do not do so again; it sets a bad example, and destroys the 
fields. (Neptune, down, sir !) But what ’s your business ? — another disagree- 
ment with your worthy lady ? — or a quarrel ? — or a ” 

“ Nothin’ at all, at all, of that sort, sir ; it ’s far worse nor that, yer honour, 
long life to ye ! It ’s all o’ the pathern ; a burning sin, and a shame, and a dis- 
grace to the whole town and counthry ; the likes of it was niver heard since 
the world was born !” 

“ Is that the way to discoorse a jentleman ?” interrupted Mick ; “ how 
can his honour understand ye? — ye’re for all the w 7 orld like a born nataral;” 
and he pushed the diminished Piper back, and advancing one foot forward, 
commenced his oration, at the same time rubbing the brim of his hat with 
much dexterity — “ To-morrow, as is well-known to yer honour, being a raale 
scholar, and a born jentleman — not like some neighbours, who have a power 
o’ money and nothing else — will be (crossing himself) the blessed day of our 
Lady, and always the pathern day of the parishes of Kilkaven and Bannow. 
Now, yer honour minds the little square field at the foot o’ the hill — always, in 
the memory o’ man called the pathern field ; well, it has plased t’other ’Squire 
— not that I ’d iver think of turning my tongue aginst the gintry, the raale 
gintry, yer honour (bowing low to Mr. Herriott) — has thought fit to forbid the 
pathern, and to threaten to sind the first man caught pitching a tint-pole on his 
land, by a constable, to Wexford jail.” 

Mr. Herriott possessed a kind and benevolent temper, he loved to see the 
peasantry happy in their own way, and spent his fortune on his estate, anxious, 
both by precept and example, to instruct and serve his tenantry ; but he had a 
decided, old-fashioned, Irish hatred of jails, constables, lawyers, soldiers, &c. ; 
and often, did he glory in the fact, that neither soldier, constable, lawyer, 
physician, nor water-guard, were within twelve miles of his mansion. “ The 
rich ’Squire,” as he was called, was a very good man as times went, but so fond 
of carrying everything with a high hand, that the benefits he conferred on the 
poor (and they were many) were seldom received with gratitude, because he 
made little allowance for the customs or foibles of those among whom he dwelt. 
Moreover, he loved soldiers, talked of establishing a land and water-guard, and 
a dispensary in the parish ; all good things, but yet decidedly opposed to the 
views of his more gentle and amiable neighbour. 

“ Indeed ! a constable !” 


324 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


“ Ay, yer honour, to a paceable parish.” 

“You have been, and are, a peaceable set of men, considering you are 
Irish,” added Mr. Herriott, smiling ; “ and certainly I believe no one here had 
anything to do with that unfortunate riot at Duncormuck, where poor Murtough 
was killed.” 

“ No, no, yer honour,” they loudly and unitedly replied ; one, in a low voice, 
added, “ He was only a Connaught man, after all !” 

“ I should be sorry, indeed, if the Bannow boys wanted either soldiers or con- 
stables to keep them in order; but I do not see how I can interfere. I cannot 
oblige Mr. Desmond to lend you the field.” 

“ No ; but your honour could give us the loan of one of yer own to keep our 
pathern in : and long may yer honour reign over us.” 

“ Amin !” said Kelly. 

“ One of my own ? I do not think I could do that,” replied Mr. Herriott ; 
“ the fields that join the road are surrounded by a bounds-ditch, and young 
plantations ; and as to those in the centre of the domain — impossible, quite.” 

“ No harm would happen to the trees,” replied Kelly, “ but it would be very 
inconvanient, no doubt. So I was just thinking, if yer honour would have no 
objection, the place forenent the grate gate would be quite the thing ; and I ’ll 
go bail that they ’ll all walk as if ’t was on eggs they were threading, and neither 
gate nor green will resave the laste damage in life.” 

“ Very w 7 ell,” said Mr. Herriott, “ remember, you are security for the good 
conduct of your friends.” 

“ Oh ! every blissing attind yer honour, and the mistress, and all the good 
family ! — hurrah, boys ! we ’ve gained the day,” cried the triumphant Piper, 
capering about and snapping his fingers ; “ we ’ll jig it, and paceably too ; no 
quieter lads in the counthry ; if that ould scoundrel, Tim McShane, and hi.s 
fiddle comes within a mile o’ me, by the powers I ’ll ” 

“ Stop, stop, my good fellow,” said Mr. Herriott, “ peace ; no disturbance ; 
the slightest fray, and depend upon it, I will set my face against fairs and pat- 
terns for the next ten years.” 

“ Oh ! God bless yer honour ! I ’ll take an oath aginst fighting and whiskey, 
if yer honour wishes, with heart’s delight.” 

“ Never mind ; if you swore against it in one parish you would take it in 
another ; that would be pretty much the same thing, I fancy ; there, go the 
road way, and now no more talk this morning,” continued the kind man, as he 
rose from his seat; “ I will walk up with the ladies, and see that you are all 
quiet and steady, to-morrow evening.” 

“ Dong life’s,” " powers o’ blessings,” “ stores o’ good luck,” were bestowed 
upon “ him and his,” and the parties pursued their separate paths. 

“ The great gate” terminated the long straight avenue before mentioned, 
where, sheltered by some five or six noble beech and horse-chesnut trees, and 
peeping from amidst a profusion of sweet-brier and wild roses, stood a little 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


325 

lodge, meek and lowly as a hedge primrose, with two lattice windows, and a 
slated roof— that unusual covering of Irish houses. 

The interior of this pretty cot was more interesting even than its outward 
seeming ; within, sat an old female spinning, her white hair turned up in front, 
a clean kerchief pinned over her cap, and knotted under her chin, and a short 
red cloak, fastened by a broad black riband ; her face was* slightly wrinkled, 
perhaps by age, perhaps by sorrow. When erect, her figure must have bee? 
tall and imposing ; and long, bony fingers, and sinewy arms, told of strength 
and exertion. At her feet was sitting, on what the Irish peasantry call a 
“ boss,” a very slight girl, with a quantity of light hair, shading a face of almost 
unearthly paleness ; she was carding flax, and laying it, in flakes, on a clean 
table at her side. The maiden, as she conversed with the aged crone, raised 
her large blue eyes to her withered face, and gazed on it with as much affection 
as if it possessed the most fascinating beauty ; while the woman’s harsh voice 
softened when she spoke to a being evidently so dear to the best feelings of her 
heart. 

“ Oh, blessed be the day, or rather the night, whin I saw ye first, mavour- 
neen ! — for you are the blessin’ o’ my life, and what was sorrow to you, was 
joy tq me.” 

“Joy to me, nurse, not sorrow; for, if I lost one parent, I found another in 
you.” 

“ A poor parint, my darlint May, but a fond ; — however, God’s will be done ; 
ould Nelly Clarey’s heart is not could yet.” 

Old Nelly Clarey, in her early days, had been a bathing woman, and 
accustomed to the sea from infancy, had become almost amphibious ; her fear- 
less disposition induced the ladies who visited the beautiful banks of Bannow, 
in summer, to rely solely on her guidance ; and, moreover, she could row a boat 
as well as any man in the country. There are a pair of green islands, about 
three miles from the borough of Ballytigue, called the “ Keeroes,” where, in 
summer, a few starved sheep, or one or two goats, wander over about an acre 
of moss and weeds. In spring-tides and stormy weather these rocks sfre very 
dangerous to vessels whose pilots are not fully acquainted with the channel ; 
and a winter seldom passed without some shipwreck occurring either on or 
near them. A dark, squally morning succeeded a fearful night of storm, about 
fifteen years before the period of my story. The hovel she then lived in was 
so near the beach, that even the rippling of the summer surge cheered the lone- 
liness of her dwelling ; but on the occasion to which I refer, it was not the 
“ soft music of the waters” that roused her from her bed ; but the often repeated 
boom, sounding above the tempest, which she well knew to be the minute-gun 
of distress from some perishing vessel. 

The early dawn beheld her wandering amongst rocks accessible only to the 
sea-birds and herself. She clambered the highest point, and extended her gaze 
over the ocean, which still angrily chafed and growled along the shore. Be- 
yond the breakers, the surface was somewhat smooth ; but little was seen to 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


326 

mark where the islands rested, save the white and sparkling foam, dashing and 
glittering in the early light, finely contrasted with the deep colouring of the sky 
and water. Nelly still gazed, and now shaded her eyes with her hand, for she 
thought she discovered something like a motionless mast amongst the distant 
breakers. She was confirmed in this opinion by observing several floating spars 
and casks rapidly® borne towards the main land. On descending to the beach, 
she found many of the neighbours anxiously watching the approach of what 
they considered lawful plunder. 

“ The wreck is between the Keeroes, Jack,” said Nelly to a rough, shaggy 
looking man, who, half in and half out of the water, was straining every nerve 
to haul in a cask, in danger of dashing against a huge dark mass of rock, that 
jutted into the sea. 

“ And what ’s it to you or me, ould girl ? — ’t would be fitter for you to be in 
your bed, than down on the wild shore, with yer whity-brown hair streaming 
about yer shoulders. Ye look for all the world like a witch !” 

“ It ’s you, and the likes of ye,” she replied, “ that bring disgrace upon poor 
Ireland. Phil Doran’s boat has passed through breakers worse nor these, and 
it shall go out, or I ’ll know the rason why ; and so many poor strangers, may- 
be, dying at this blessed moment on thim islands !” 

“ It ’s few ’ll go wid ye, then,” replied the man, as he grappled with the cask ; 
and, pulling it in, added, “ if it ’s strangers ye ’re thinking of, there ’s one come 
already,” pointing to a heap of sea-weed — “ his bed is soft enough, at any rate. 
The ould fool,” he continued, as Nelly strided towards the spot, “ she ’ll take 
more trouble about that sinseless corpse than she would to look after the bits o’ 
Godsinds the wild waters bring us.” 

Nelly found the body of a youth, apparently about eighteen, nearly 
embedded in sea-weed. She disentangled it with speed and tenderness, carried 
it up the cliffs, dripping as it was, with perfect ease, and laid it out before the 
turf fire in her humble hut. One of the arms was broken, and sorely mangled ; 
and the bitten lip and extended eyelids plainly told that the youth had wrestled 
daringly with death. 

“Ye’ll no more gladden your mother’s heart, or bring joy to your father’s 
home,” sighed the excellent creature, when perfectly convinced that restoratives 
were useless. “ God comfort the mother that bore ye ! — for ye were brave and 
handsome, and, may-be, the pride of more hearts than one.” 

As the morning advanced, tokens of extensive shipwreck crowded the beach, 
and many respectable inhabitants assembled, to prevent plunder. The surf still 
ran so high that Nelly’s pleadings were disregarded. Although the mast of the 
lost vessel was now distinctly seen, the hardiest boatman would not venture 
out to the Keeroes. 

“ I cannot call ye Irishmen,” said she after using many fruitless arguments 
to urge her neighbours to attempt the passage ; “ vile Cromellians are ye all, 
wid not a drop of true Milesian blood in yer shrivelled veins !” 

The evening sun had cast a deep red light over the ocean, whose waters 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


327 

were less disturbed than they had been at noon ; and the moon rose, with calm 
majesty, over the subsiding waves — attended by her train of silent but spark 
ling handmaids, scattering light and brilliancy over her path. 

Nelly could not sleep ; again she clambered the “ black rock,” and scared 
the sea-gull from its nest — anxious to ascertain, although almost beyond 
human ken, if any living object remained on the Keeroes, now more distinctly 
visible. As her eye wandered along the shore, it rested on Phil Doran’s boat, 
which had been drawn up on the shingles ; her mind was, at once, made up 
to a daring enterprise. No village clock tolled the knell of the departing 
hours, but she knew it must be near midnight. She returned to her cabin, 
wrapt a long cloak around her, and secured a bottle of spirits in the hood. 
A few minutes found her on the strand; the oars were in the strong, but 
rude fishing-boat, and she soon drew it to the water. When in the act of push- 
ing off, a head appeared, from behind one of the rocks, and a voice exclaimed 
— “ Botheration to ye, on what fool’s journey are ye now ? It ’s myself believes 
ye ’ve doings with the ould one, for there ’s no rest for a body near ye, day nor 
night.” 

“ Come, Jack,” replied the woman, convinced that assistance would be use- 
ful, “ it ’s calm enough now, and ye may find something on thim islands you ’d 
like to have. I cannot rest in pace, while I think there may be a living thing 
on the rocks.” 

The love of plunder, and the love of enterprise, the latter, perhaps, 
inspired by the whiskey he had drank during the day, urged Jack to 
accompany the woman. As they approached the Keeroes, their little 
bark leaped lightly over the billows, and Nelly, like others of her sex, gloried 
in her opinion being correct, for the mast, and part of the rigging of 
the vessel, still adhered to the wreck, and, absolutely, hung over the largest 
island. 

Jack commenced prowling for plunder ; Nelly could not perceive a single 
body on the shore. At length she discovered midway the mast, something like 
a female figure, so securely fastened, that even the waters must fail to disen- 
tangle the cords and scarfs, with which the hands of affection had secured it to 
what appeared the last refuge. 

“It’s a faymale, at all events,” said Jack, when Nelly succeeded in fix- 
ing his attention. “I’m sartin it’s a faymale: so here goes! — bad as ye 
think me — bad as, may-be, I am — Jack Connor never did a bad turn to the 
women.” 

He managed to get to the mast, cut the braces, and lower the corpse (for so 
it was), enveloped in many shawls, into Nelly’s arms. 

“ She ’s gone, as well as the boy ye picked up this morning, Nelly,” he 
exclaimed. 

“ God, in his mercy, save us all !” she exclaimed, falling on her knees, 

“ God in his mercy save us ! Her stiff arms are locked over a living baby, and 
its little head is on her bare bosom !” 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


328 

It was even so. The lady was dead ; her weak frame had been unable to 
retain life amid so many horrors ! and her spirit could not long have lingered 
behind ms, whose last efforts were exerted to preserve the objects of his purest 
affections, when to others, “all earth was but one thought — and that was — 
death !” 

Jack — croppy, smuggler, wrecker, poacher, white-boy, rogue, and rapparee, 
as he either was, or had been — Jack Connor (I wish to do everybody justice) 
placed the unfortunate lady carefully in the boat, took off his jacket, which he 
added as another covering to the still living infant ; and without plundering a 
single article, or uttering a single sentence, rowed steadily to the shore. As 
he carried the body up the cliffs, the morning light was stealing over the now 
calm ocean. “ Nelly,” said he, as he rested the burden on her bed — “ Nelly, 
I ’ll never gainsay ye agin ; if I ’d done yer bidding yesterday, that cratur 
would be a living woman now.” 

Nelly’s courage and humanity gained for her high approbation. The vessel 
was ascertained to have been a Chinese trader, on her homeward passage ; but 
of the crew or passengers, none remained, except the infant the bathing-woman 
had so heroically rescued. 

Mr. Herriott persuaded Nelly, for the sake of her adopted child, to take up 
ner abode at the avenue lodge. The babe was called May, and much did 
Nelly complain of what she termed a “ heathen name.” But Mr. Herriott 
convinced her it was right, as the letters M. A. Y. were wrought in a bracelet 
found on her mother’s wrist. No inquiries had ever been made about the little 
stranger, and her story was seldom thought of ; but she was very different from 
the peasant children; not so fond of play, and always sweetly serious. She 
heard the intelligence that the pattern was to be celebrated outside the great 
gates, with more fear than pleasure, and could hardly understand why Miss 
Kelly so gloried in her father’s having gained the day. Old Nelly “ stood up” 
for Mr. Herriott’s ascendancy, with true clan-like feeling ; not that she cared 
for the pattern, but she hated soldiers, and constables, and lawyers, and water- 
guards, because she knew “ the master” hated them ; and so, in honour of the 
pattern victory, she told May she should cut as good a figure as any of them 
— and better too, for the matter of that ; there was a long, narrow scarf, that 
had belonged to her mother (heaven rest her soul !) and she should wear it as a 
sash, and she should dance, too ” 

“ I do not care for dancing, dear nurse,” observed the pale girl ; “ my heart ’s 
not in it ; but I 'll do my best to plase you ; and I dare say it will be a merry 
pathern.” 

And so it was. Such a pattern ! — such a sight of tents had never been seen 
by the oldest man in the parish, except at the fair of Ballynasloe, which, as 
Kelly said, he had never seen, but only heard of! Such a “ power” of people ! 
There was the old Lord of Carrick, as he was called — the most respectable 
butcher for ten miles round, with his bob-wig over his grey hair, all on one 
side, from joy and whiskey. There was Mickey the tailor, with his seven sons ; 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


329 

such fine boys, not one of them under six feet, and the youngest only one-and- 
twenty. There was Pat Kenessy’s tent, with a green flag flowing without, and 
whiskey “ gilloure” flowing within. There was Mary-the-Mant, in a “ bran new 
gown and the five Misses Kenessy, with every earthly and heavenly colour 
on them, except orange. Then the Corishes— the never-ending Corishes !— -Pat 
Corish and his childer ; Jim Corish, and his childer ; Tom Corish, and his chil- 
der ; Mat Corish, and his childer — not a quiet English family of three or four 
young ones each — but ten or fourteen romping rogues, boys and girls, with sten- 
torian lungs and herculean fists. And who would be cruel enough to interrupt 
their amusements, of hurling, jumping, eating, drinking, dancing, and fighting, in 
pattern time — while their parents were employed, generally speaking, pretty 
much in the same way ?* 

“ The grate tint” was reserved for dancing, when the “ quality” came ; and 
often did Kelly parade around it, to see that all was right; and many a longing 
look was cast down the avenue, to watch if the gentry were approaching. 

“ The great bell did not ring for dinner as early as usual,” said Nelly 
Clarey to her adopted, as she placed the last pin in her sash, and arranged the 
flapping bows to her own peculiar taste. “ I don’t want you to go amongst 
them yet, till the quality come ; but stay,” she continued, “ let me try ;” and 
she opened a little box, that contained a chain, three rings, and a small, but 
curiously wrought, bracelet — “ stay ; these were your poor mother’s, and 
beautiful she looked, and quiet, — when I took thim off, and swore to keep 
thim for you, my darlint, and never let poverty part thim from me. But it’s 
little poverty I ’ve known, thank God ; and blessings on him and his that pre- 
sarved us from it.” During this speech, Nelly had tried first one, and then the 
other, of the rings, on May’s fingers. “ They ’re all too small for ye ; well, sure 
enough, she had the sweetest little hand I ever saw. The fastening of the 
chain ’s not good, or ye might wear that ; but what ’s to hinder ye putting on 
the bracelet ? — ye cannot lose it. M. A. Y. — it was yer father’s and mother’s 
hair that formed thim letters, I ’ll ingage.” May gazed upon it, and tear-drops 
gathered on her long eyelashes. 

“ My child — almost my own child,” said the affectionate Nelly, “ why do ye 
cry? — you are always sad when others are merry. Ah, May, May; you’d 
forget — look ! — there ’s Mr. Herriott, and the mistress, and the young lady, and 
the strange dark gentleman — master’s ould frind, they say— at the gate ; and 
you not fit to be seen ; there — stand asy, and wash your eyes. I ’ll attind their 
honours ; and in five minutes ye ’ll look my queen agin.” 

Kelly, and some of his train stood outside the gate ready to receive “ the 
gintry;” and way was soon made for them to pass along the line of tents. 

* If my accomplished countryman, Mr. Maclise, met in the county of Wexford the subject 
he has so admirably pictured, and which stands at the head of this story, it must have been at 
Taghmon — Taghmon cheerless, boisterous, and dirty, even in these days of temperance and 
whitewash. Well might Kelly the Piper say that, “ though the Taghmon girls were the dick- 
ens at the single and double fling, they hadn’t a taste of the Bannow modesty.” 

42 


330 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


The bustling and skirmishing instantly ceased. The men held their hats in 
their hands, and the women rose and courtesied respectfully, as Mr. Ilerriott 
and his family proceeded, while many a heartfelt blessing followed their 
footsteps. 

Perhaps the most perfect happiness in the world is that which a good Irish 
landlord enjoys, when his tenantry are really devoted to his service ; because 
their devotion is manifested by those external signs which can only emanate 
from an enthusiastic temperament. “ How well his honour looks ! — sure it ’s a 
blessing to see him ; and the mistress so queen-like, and yet so humble, with her 
kind smile, and asking after the childer, so motherly.” 

“ Who ’s the stranger I” 

“ From foreign parts, I b’lieve, by his dark skin.” 

“Very like; in all yer born days, did ye ever see anything like the state 
Kelly takes on himself? to be sure he’s o’ very dacent people, and the best 
piper in the whole barony ; but there ’s rason in all things, and there ’ll be a 
power of gintry in the pathern before night. Mr. Cormack and the ladies, Mr. 
Jocelyn, and Mr. Lambton, and, may-be, they won’t put up wid Kelly’s talk, like 
the rest.” 

“Never heed; sure, they all know his ways; but come,” and the oldest 
crone of the assembly rose off a seat, where four or five, “ withered and wild in 
their attire,” had been sitting smoking their “ doodeens,” and making observa- 
tions on everybody, under the shadow of one of the great piers. “ Come, 
they’re crowding into the tint, and we’ll be all behind, like the cow’s tail, if we 
don’t make taste.” 

Kelly had taken his seat, or, rather, erected his throne, on the top of one of 
the largest casks that could be procured in the parish; and on forms, at each 
side of the musician, were seated the “ gentlefolk ;” — a small space between — 
and men, women, and children, crouched or stood, as they best could manage, 
leaving sufficient room for the dancers ; for which purpose, certainly, not much 
was required, as either reel or jig can be performed on a good-sized door, al- 
ways taken off its hinges, and laid on “ the sod” for the purpose. 

The wide entrance to the tent was crowded with a mass of laughing Irish 
faces, beaming with joy. 

Paddy Madder — who but Paddy Madder was fit to open the ball ? Paddy, 
the oldest man in the parish, and, in his youth, it was said ‘(for none remem- 
bered it), the finest dancer ever seen in all Ireland. Paddy acquitted himself 
nobly, considering that he had numbered eighty and two years ; and Mr. Her- 
riott placed the old man by his side, and heard, with delight, of the youthful 
feats which age so dearly loves to dwell upon. 

Miss Kelly next dropped her bob courtesy to young Tom Corish ; who, after 
“ covering the buckle” to admiration, and beating his partner at the “ highland 
fling,” made “ a remarkable genteel bow” to poor May, heedless of the smiles 
and approbation pert Jane Roche bestowed on his performance. May was not 
at all flattered by the distinction, and clung to her nurse’s side, until desired, in 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


331 

an authoritative tone, by Kelly, to “ step out, and not look so sheepish.” May 
danced, I must confess, very badly, but she looked very lovely ; timidity and 
exercise gave a colour to her cheek which it seldom possessed, and her light, 
sylph-like form, graced by the flowing sash, formed a strange contrast to the 
almost gigantic figure of her partner. 

“ Who is that girl V 9 inquired the strange gentleman of Mr. Herriott. 

“ I cannot tell you who she is, but she has been nursed by a very deserving 
woman, who attends our gate lodge.” 

“ Indeed.” 

The gentleman again looked at her. As May continued, she forgot she was 
the object of general attention, and danced with more spirit. The stranger rose 
from his seat, and appeared to watch her movements with extraordinary anxiety. 

“ It is strange,” said he to Mr. Herriott, “ but that child is singularly like one 
whom I loved more than any earthly being ; — my sister Anna.” 

“ Indeed ; I never saw her ; — but you often mentioned her to me when we 
were schoolfellows ; do you remember saying how much you should like me 
for a brother-in-law V 9 

“ Boyhood’s imaginings, my dear friend. She returned to her family at 
Calcutta, when her education was completed, and married a young merchant, 
her inferior in rank — but I knew she was happy, and forgave it — poor Anna ! 
She accompanied him to China, and, if their traffic succeeded, they were to 
have voyaged to England. I found they embarked on board a vessel for the 
purpose, but ” 

“ Shame upon ye !” exclaimed Tom Corish, loud enough to interrupt the 
narrative Mr. Herriott was so earnestly attending to ; “ ye know his honour 
does not dance, May, but it ’s only manners for ye to ax his honour’s frind to 
take a step, now that ye ’ve bate me clane off, lazy as ye wint about it.” 

Poor May made her courtesy, all panting and blushing as she was, and, 
without saying a word, or looking up, extended her hand to lead him to “ the 
floor but she uttered a piercing shriek, when, seizing her arm with a powerful 
grasp, the stranger half dragged — half carried her, to the entrance of the tent ; 
there he tenderly supported the frightened girl, but still held the arm she had 
extended to him with unrelaxing firmness ; while his eyes wandered from her 
face to the golden bracelet which her nurse had clasped. The peasantry were 
perfectly unable to comprehend the matter. Kelly descended from his throne ; 
and Nelly Clarey looked quite thunderstruck. She was, however, the first to 
recover her surprise. 

“ What do you mean by glowering that way on my child V 9 

“ Your child, woman ! Herriott, you said she was not hers ; you said you 
could not say who she was. Speak, I entreat, for mercy speak, and tell me 
how that bracelet came — who gave it her?” 

“ Nobody gave it her,” replied Nelly ; “ I myself took it off her mother’s arm 
— God rest her soul ! — the very morning that Jack Connor and I picked thim 
both cmt of the salt shrouds. The waves were her early cradle, poor thing !” 


332 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


“ How long since V 9 

« Oh, for the matter o’ that, it will be fifteen years, come next Candlemas.’’ 

The strange gentleman let the braceleted wrist drop, and folded the trembling 
May to his bosom. 

« She is my sister’s child,” said he, when he could speak, “ and henceforth 
mine.” 

Mr. Herriott suggested the propriety of their going into the lodge. Poor 
Nelly followed the gentry, keeping close to her adopted, muttering, “ I have 
lost her now, any how.” The rings and the chain were produced; but the 
strongest witness was the bracelet ; M. A. Y. were the united initials of May’s 
father and mother ; and a spring under the clasp, which had escaped observa- 
tion, discovered a miniature of Mr. Monnett (the strange gentleman) which he 
had himself given to his beloved sister, as a token of affection, op her leaving 
Calcutta. 

“ So ye ’re a lady after all, by fortune as well as birth,” said Nelly, looking 
affectionately at May, “ and I must call ye Miss ; and ye ’ll be no more near 
me; and no more shall I hear yer sweet voice in the soft summer evenings, 
calling to me from the wood, or reading to me whin the snow hangs the trees 
with white, like cherry blossoms ; and the place will miss ye ; and I shall be 
left desolate in my ould age. But ye ’ll think of me ; think of yer poor nurse, 
Nelly, who, on her bare knees” — and as she knelt she extended her clasped 
hands to heaven — “ prays that the tear o’ sorrow may niver dim yer eye ; that 
the blush o’ shame may niver paint yer cheek ; that the blessings o’ the poor 
may strew the sweetest summer flowers in yer path ; and that a long life and a 
happy death may be yer blessing ; and after,” continued she, solemnly, “ in 
heaven — in the presence of the Father and his holy saints, may the poor Ban- 
now woman see ye a bright angel of glory !” 

May flung herself on her nurse’s bosom; and Mr. Monnett assured them, 
he hoped they would never be separated ; “ for I think, Nelly,” said he, “ May 
looks so delicate that she will need your kind care wherever she goes ; and she 
would be unworthy of my affection if she wished to leave you.” Consequently, 
there was not a single sorrowful heart among the population, rich and poor, of 
“ the united parishes of Bannow and Kilkaven.” 

“ Any body might see,” exclaimed Kelly, half an hour afterwards, when May 
appeared at the gate, for a moment, to receive the congratulations of her for- 
mer companions, leaning on the one side on her uncle, on the other, on her 
nurse — “ anybody might see that she had always the gentle drop in her ; and I 
tould you so, Miss Jinny, my lady,” continued he, sneeringly, to Jane Roche, 
who had always treated poor May with contempt, and looked somewhat dis- 
concerted at her sudden elevation ; “ fine feathers don’t always make fine 
birds.” Miss Jenny, however, had one consolation; hereafter, a powerful rival 
would be removed out of the way. 

“ Kelly,” said Mr. Herriott, “ but for you this discovery would not have been 


KELLY THE PIPER. 


333 


made ; for there would have been no pattern ; therefore, my boys, crown him 
king of pipers, patterns and whiskey ; and plenty of that, and good Irish roast 
beef, shall you have, and a glorious supper outside these gates— -peace — plenty 
— and whiskey !” 

“ King Kelly for ever, and long life to the May !” cried Mickey the tailor ; 
and they chaired, or rather shouldered, Kelly round the green ; and poured a 
noggin of pure whiskey over his head, which made him as good a king as the 
best of them (they said) ; and the Piper composed a jig, extempore, that beat 
jig Polthouge, and all the jigs ever made, before or since, clean out of the field, 
and called it the “ Lady May.” 




MASTER BEN. 



TATELY, and tall, and gaunt, was “ Master Ben 5” 
with a thin sprinkling of white, mingled with the 
slightly-curling brown hair, that shaded a forehead, 
high, and somewhat narrow. With all my partiality 
for this very respectable personage, I must confess 
that his physiognomy was neither handsome nor in- 
teresting ; yet there was a calm and gentle expres- 
sion in his pale, grey eyes, that told of much kind- 
heartedness — even to the meanest of God’s creatures. 
His steps were strides ; his voice shrill, like a boat- 
swain’s whistle ; and his learning — prodigious ! — the 
unrivalled dominie of the country, for five miles 
round, w r as Master Ben. 

Although the cabin of Master Ben was built of the 
blue shingle, so common along the eastern coast of 
Ireland, and was perched, like the nest of a pewet, on 
one of the highest crags in the neighbourhood of Ban- 
now ; although the aforesaid Master Ben, or (as he was called by the gentry) 
“ Mister Benjamin,” had worn a long black coat for a period of fourteen years 

( 334 ) 


MASTER BEN. 


335 

in summer, as an open surtout, which flapped heavily in the gay sea-breeze — 
and in winter, firmly secured, by a large wooden pin, round his throat — the 
dominie was a person of much consideration, and more loved than feared, even 
by the little urchins who often felt the effects of his “ system of education.” Do 
not, therefore, for a moment, imagine that his was one of the paltry hedge- 
schools, where all the brats contribute their “ sod o’ turf,” or their “ small trifle 
o’ pratees,” to the schoolmaster’s fire or board. No such thing ; though I con- 
fess that “ Mister Benjamin” would, occasionally, accept “ a hand of pork,” a 
kreel, or even a kish o’ turf, or three or four hundred of “ white-eyes,” or 
“ London ladies,” if they were presented, in a proper manner, by the parents of 
his favourite pupils. 

In summer, indeed, he would, occasionally, lead his pupils into the open air, 
permitting the biggest of them to bring his chair of state ; and while the fresh 
ocean breeze played around them, he would teach them all he knew, and that 
was not a little ; but, usually, he considered his lessons more effectual, when 
they were learned under his roof ; and it was, in truth, a pleasing sight to view 
his cottage assemblage, on a fresh summer morning; — such rosy, laughing, 
romping things ! “ The juniors,” with their rich curly heads, red cheeks, and 

bright, dancing eyes, seated in tolerably straight lines — many on narrow strips 
of blackened deal — the remnants, probably, of some shipwrecked vessel — sup- 
ported at either end by fragments of grey rock ; others on portions of the rock 
itself, that “Master Ben” used to say, “though not very asy to sit upon for 
gossoons, were clane, and not much trouble.” “ The seniors,” fine clever-look- 
ing fellows, intent on -their sums or copies — either standing at, or leaning on 
the blotted “ desks,” that extended along two sides of the school-room, kitchen, or 
whatever you may please to call so purely Irish an apartment ; the chimney 
admitted a large portion of storm or sunshine, as might chance ; but the low 
wooden partition, which divided this useful room from the sleeping part of the 
cabin, at once told that Master Ben’s dwelling was of a superior order. 

At four, the dominie always dismissed his assembly, and heart-cheering was 
the joy that succeeded. On the long summer evenings, the merry groups w T ould 
scramble down the cliffs — which in many places overhang the wide-spreading 
ocean — heedless of danger — 

“ And jump, and laugh, and shout, and clap their hands 
In noisy merriment.” 

The seniors then commenced lobster and crab-hunting, and often showed 
much dexterity in hooking the gentlemen out of their rocky nests, with a long, 
crooked stick of elder, which they considered “ lucky.” The younkers were 
generally content with shrimping, or knocking the limpits — or, as they call 
them, the “ branyans,” off the rocks ; while the wee-wee ones slyly watched 
the ascent of the razor-fish, whose deep den they easily discovered by its tiny 
mountain of sand. 

Even during their hours of amusement, Master Ben was anxious for their 


336 


MASTER BEN. 


welfare ; and enthroned on a high pinnacle, that commanded a boundless view 
of the wide-spreading sea, with its numerous creeks and bays, he would 
patiently sit, hour after hour — one eye fixed on some dirty, wise, old book, 
while the other watched the various schemes and scampings of his quondam 
pupils — until the fading rays of the setting sun, and the shrill screams of the 
sea-birds, warned master and scholar of the coming night. 

Every one agreed that “ Master Ben” was very learned — but how he became 
so was what nobody could tell ; some said (for there are scandal-mongers in 
every village) that, long ago, Master Ben’s father was convicted of treasonable 
practices, and obliged to fly to “ foreign parts” to save his life ; his child was 
the companion of his wanderings, according to this statement. But there was 
another, far more probable ; — that our dominie had been a poor scholar — a class 
of students peculiar, I believe, to Ireland, who travel from province to province, 
with satchels on their backs, containing books, and whatever provisions are 
given them, and devote their time to study and begging. The poorest peasant 
will share his last potato with a wandering scholar, and there is always a couch 
of clean straw prepared for him in the warmest corner of an Irish cabin. Be 
these surmises true or false, everybody allowed that Master Ben was the most 
clever schoolmaster between Bannow and Dublin: he would correct even 
Father Sinnott, “ on account o’ the bog-latin his reverence used at the altar 
itself.” “ His reverence” always took this in good part, laughed at it, but never 
omitted adding, slyly, “ The poor cratur ! — he thinks he knows betther than 
me !” I must say, that the laugh which concluded this sentence was much more 
joyous than that at the commencement. 

The dominie’s life passed very smoothly, and with apparent comfort; — 
strange as it may sound to English ears — comfort. A mild, half-witted sister, 
who might be called his shadow — so silently and calmly did she follow his steps, 
and do all that could be done, to make the only being she loved happy — shared 
his dwelling. The potatoes, she planted, dug, and picked, with her own hands ; 
milked and tended “ Nanny” and “ Jenny,” two pretty, merry goats, who de- 
voured not only the wild heather and fragrant thyme, which literally cover the 
sand banks and hills of Bannow, but made sundry trespasses on the flower-beds 
at the “ great house,” and defied pound, tether, and fetter, with the most rogue- 
ish and provoking impudence. I had almost forgotten — but she small-plaited 
in a superior and extraordinary manner ; and — poor thing ! — she was as vain 
of that qualification as any young lady, who rumbles over the keys of a grand 
piano, and then triumphantly informs the audience that she has played “ The 
Storm.” 

“ Changeful are all the scenes of life,” says somebody or other ; and when 
I was about ten years old, “ Master Ben” underwent two very severe trials — 
trials the poor man had never anticipated ; one was teaching, or trying to teach, 
me the multiplication table — an act no mortal man (or woman either) ever 
could accomplish ; the other was— falling in love. As “ Master Ben” was the 
best arithmetician in the county, he was the person fixed on to instruct me in 


MASTER BEN. 


337 


the most puzzling science — no small compliment I assure you — and he was 
obliged to arrange, so as to leave his pupils twice a week for two long hours 
. “ Master Ben” rose in estimation surprisingly, when this was known ; and, on 
the strength of it got two-pence instead of three-halfpence a week from his 
best scholars : he thought he should also gain credit by his new pupil’s progress. 
How vain are man’s imaginings ! From the first intimation I received of the 
intended visits of my tutor, I felt a most lively anticipation of much fun and 
mischief. 

“ Now, Miss, dear, don’t be full o’ yer tricks,” said pretty Peggy O’Dell, who 
had the especial care of my person. “ Now, Miss, dear, stand asy — you won’t ? 
— well, then, I ’ll not tell ye the news— no, not a word ! Oh, ye ’re asy now, 
are ye ! Well, then— to-morrow, Frank tells me, Master Ben is to come to 
tache you the figures ; and good rason has Frank to know, for he druv the 
carriage to Master Ben’s own house, and hard the mistress say all about it ; and 
that was the rason ye w r ere left at home, mavourneen, with yer own Peggy ; 
becase the ladies wished to keep it all sacret like, till they ’d tell ye their own 
selves. Oh, Miss, dear, asy — asy — till I tie yer sash ! — there, now — now you 
may run off; but stay one little minit — take kindly to the figures. I know you 
can’t abide them now, but I hear they are main useful ; and take to it asy — as 
quiet as you can ; Master Ben has fine laming, and expicts much credit for 
tacheing the likes of you. And why not ?” 

Poor Benjamin ! — he certainly did stride to the manor, and into the study, 
next morning ; and, in due time, I w r orked through, that is, I wrote out the 
questions, and copied the sums, with surprising dexterity, in “numeration,” 
“ addition of integers,” “ compound subtraction,” and entered the “ single rule 
of three direct,” with much eclat My book was shown, divested of its blots by 
my kind master’s enduring knife ; and even my cousin (the only arithmetician in 
the family) was compelled to acknowledge that, if I did the sums myself, I was 
a very good girl indeed. That if destroyed my reputation. I had too much 
honour to tell a story. • 

What a passion, to be sure, the dominie got into the next day, when informed 
of my disgrace ! I cannot bear to see a long, thin man in a passion, to this very 
hour ; there is nothing on earth like it, except a Lombardy poplar in a storm. 
However, if poor Master Ben was tormented in the study by me, he was more 
tormented in the servants’ hall by pretty Peggy. 

Peggy was exactly a lively Irish coquet : such merry, twinkling, black eyes ; 
such white teeth, which were often exposed by the loud and joyous laugh, that 
extended her large but well-formed mouth ; and such a bounding, lissom figure, 
always (no small merit in an Irish lassie) neatly, if not tastefully, arrayed. She 
was an especial favourite with my dear grandmother, who had been her patron 
from early childhood ; and Peggy fully and highly valued herself on this ac- 
count. Then she could read and write in her own way ; wore lace caps, with 
pink and blue bows ; and, as curls were interdicted, braided her raven locks 
with much care and attention. 

43 


338 


MASTER BEN. 


The smartest, prettiest girl, at wake or pattern, for ten miles round, was cer- 
tainly Peggy O’Dell ; and many lovers had she ; from Thomas Murphy of the 
Hill (the richest) who had a cow, six pigs, and all requisites to make a woman 
happy, according to his own account, to Wandering Will (the poorest), who 
though not five-and-twenty, had been a jovial sailor, a brave soldier, a capital 
fiddler, a very excellent cobbler, a good practical surgeon (he had performed 
several very clever operations as a dentist and bone-setter, I assure you), and, 
at last, settled as universal assistant at the manor house ; cleaned the carriage 
and horses with Frank, waited at table with Dennis, helped Martha to carry 
home the milk, instructed Peter Kean how to train vines in the Portuguese 
fashion (which foreign treatment had so ill an effect on our poor Irish vines, 
that, to Wandering Will’s eternal disgrace, they withered and died — a circum- 
stance honest Peter never failed to remind him of, whenever he presumed to 
suggest any alteration in horticultural arrangements), had the exclusive care 
of the household brewing, and was even detected in assisting old Margaret 
hunting the round meadow for eggs, which the obstinate lady-fowl preferred 
hiding among brakes and bushes, to depositing, in a proper manner, in the hen- 
house. Moreover, Will was “ the jewil” of all the county during the hunting 
and shooting season — knew all the fox earths, and defied the simple cunning of 
hare and partridge ; made love to all the pretty girls in the village ; and as he 
was handsome, notwithstanding the loss of one of his beautiful eyes, everybody 
sakj that no one would refuse* William, were he even as poor again, as he was — 
an utter impossibility. The rumour spread, however, that his wandering affec- 
tions were actually settled into a serious attachment for Peggy ; but who Peggy 
was in love with was another matter. She jested with everybody, and laughed 
more at Master Ben than at any one else ; she was always delighted when an 
opportunity occurred of playing off droll tricks to his disadvantage ; and some 
of her jokes were so practical, that the housekeeper frequently threatened to 
inform her mistress of her pranks. Master Ben was always the first to prevent 
this ; and his constant remonstrance — “ Mistress Betty, let the innocent cratur 
alone, she manes no harm; she knows I don’t mind her youthful fun — the 
cratur !” saved Peggy many a reproof. 

One morning I had been more than ordinarily inattentive ; and my tutor, per- 
plexed, or as he termed it, “ fairly bothered,” requested to speak to my grand- 
mother ; when she granted him audience. He stammered and blundered in 
such a manner, that it was quite impossible to ascertain what he wanted to 
speak about ; at length out it came — “ He had saved a good pinny o’ money, 
and thought it time to settle in life.” 

“ Settle, Mister Benjamin ! — why, I always thought you were a settled, sober 
man. What do you mean I” inquired my grandmother. 

“ To get married, ma’am rousing all his energies to pronounce the fatal 
sentence. 

“ Married !” repeated my grandmother ; “ married !— you, Benjamin Rattin, 
married at your time of life ! — and to whom ?” 


MASTER BEN. 339 

“ I was only eight-and-forty, madam,” he replied (drawing himself up), “ my 
last birthday ; and, by your lave, I mane to marry Peggy O’fiell.” 

“ Peggy! — you marry Peggy!” She found it impossible to maintain the 
sober demeanour necessary when such declarations are made. “ Mister Ben- 
jamin, Peggy is not twenty, gay and giddy as a young fawn ; and, I must con- 
fess, I should not like her to marry for four or five years. Now, as you cer- 
tainly cannot wait all that time, I think you ought to think of some one else.” 

“ Your pardon, madam; she is my first, and shall be my last, love. And I 
know,” added the dominie, looking modestly on the carpet, “ that she has a tin 
derness for me.” 

“ What ! Peggy a tenderness for you ! — poor child ! — quite impossible !” said 
my grandmother, “ she never had the tenderness you mean for any living man, I ’ll 
answer for it ;” and the bell was rung to summon Miss Peggy to the presence. 

She entered — blushed and simpered at the first questions put to her ; at last 
my grandmother deliberately asked her, if she had given Mister Ben encourage- 
ment at any time — and this she most solemnly denied. 

“ Oh, you hard-hearted girl, you ! — did you ever cease laughing from the time 
I came in till I went out o’ the house ? — weren’t you always smiling at me, and 
playing your pranks, and — ” 

“ Stop !” said Peggy, at once assuming a grave and serious manner ; — “ stop ; 
may-be I laughed too much — but I shall cry more, if — (and she fell on her knees 
at my grandmother’s feet) — if ye don’t forgive me, mistress, dear — almost the 
first, sartainly the last, time I shall ever offend you.” 

“ Child, you have not angered me replied my grandmother, who saw her 
emotion with astonishment. 

“ Oh, yes ; but I know best — I have — I have — I know I have ! — but I ’ll never 
do so more — never — never !” — and she burst into a flood of tears. Poor Master 
Ben stood aghast. 

“ Speak,” said my grandmother, almost bewildered: “ speak, and at once — 
what have you done V ’ 

“ Oh ! he over-persuaded me, and said ye ’d never consint till it was done ; 
and so we were married, last night, at Judy Ryan’s station.” 

“ Married ! to whom, in the name of wonder?” 

“Oh, Willy — Wandering Willy; but he’ll never wander more; he’ll be 
tame and steady, and, to the last day of his life, he ’ll sarve you and yours ; 
and only forgive me, your poor Peggy, that ye saved from want, and that ’ll 
never do the like again — no, never!” The poor girl clasped her hands im- 
ploringly, but did not dare to look her mistress in the face. My grandmother 
rose and left the room ; she was much offended ; nor could it be denied that 
Peggy’s conduct was highly improper. The child of her bounty, she had acted 
with duplicity, and married a man whose unsteady habits promised little for her 
comfort. 

Poor Master Ben ! — lovers’ sorrows furnish abundant themes for jest and 
jesters ; but they are not the less serious, on that account, to those immediately 


340 


MASTER BEN. 


concerned in les affaires du coeur. When he heard the confession that she was 
truly married, he looked at her for a few minutes, and then quitted the house, 
determined never to enter it again. Peggy and her husband were dismissed ; 
but a good situation was soon procured for Will, as commander of a small 
vessel, that traded from Waterford to Bannow, with corn, coal, timber, “ and 
sundries.” Contrary to all expectation, he made a kind and affectionate 
husband. 

Winter had nearly passed, and Peggy almost ceased to dread the storms that 
scatter so many wrecks along our frowning coast. Her little cabin was a neat, 
cheerful dwelling, in a sheltered nook ; and often, during her husband’s absence, 
did she go forth to look out upon the ocean-flood — 

“ With not a sound beside, except when flew 
Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew 

and gaze, and watch for his sail on the blue waters. On the occasion to which 
I refer, he had been long expected home ; and many of the rich farmers, who 
used coal instead of turf, went down to the pier to inquire if the “ Pretty 
Peggy” (so Will called his boat) had come in. The wind was contrary, but, as 
the weather was fair, no one thought of danger. Soon, the little bark hove in 
sight, and soon was Peggy at the pier, watching for his figure on deck, or for 
the waving of hat or handkerchief, the beloved token of recognition : but no 
such token appeared. The dreadful tale was soon told. Peggy, about to be- 
come a mother, was already a widow. 

Will had fallen overboard, in endeavouring to secure a rope that had slipped 
from the side of his vessel ; the night was dark, and one deep, heavy splash 
alone knelled the departure of poor Wandering Willy. 

Peggy, forlorn and desolate, suffered the bitter pains of child-birth ; and, in a 
few hours, expired — her heart was broken. 

About five years after this melancholy event, I was rambling amongst the 
tombs and ruins of the venerable church of Bannow. Every stone of that old 
pile is hallowed to my remembrance ; its bleak situation, the barren sand-hills 
that surround it, and 

“ The measured chime, the thundering burst.” 

of the boundless ocean, always rendered it, in my earliest days, a place of 
grand and overpowering interest. Even now 

“I miss the voice of waves — the first 
That awoke my childhood’s glee 

and often think of the rocks, and cliffs, and blue sea, that first led my thoughts 
“ from nature up to nature’s God !” 

I looked through the high-arched window into the churchyard, and observed 
an elderly man, kneeling on one knee, employed in pulling up the docks and 


MASTER BEN. 


341 


nettles that overshadowed an humble grave, under the south wall. A pale, 
delicate little girl quietly and silently watched all he did ; and, when no offen- 
sive weed remained, carefully scattered over it a large nosegay of fresh flowers, 
and, instructed by the aged man, knelt on the mound, and lisped a simple prayer 
to the memory of her mother. 

It was, indeed, my old friend, “ Master Ben the pale child he had long 
called his — it was the orphan daughter of William and Peggy. His love was 
not the love of worldlings ; despite his outward man, it was pure and unsophisti- 
cated ; it pleased God to give him the heart to be a father to the fatherless. 
The girl is now the blessing of his old age ; and, as he has long since given up his 
school, he finds much amusement in instructing his adopted child, who, I under- 
stand, has already made great progress in his favourite science of numbers. 





INDEPENDENCE. 


F all others, “ Independence” is the word that Irish — 
men, women and children — least understand ; and the 
calmness, or rather indifference, with which they sub- 
mit to dependence, bitter and miserable as it is, must 
be a source of deep regret to all who “ love the land,” 
or who feel anxious to uphold the dignity of human 
kind. Let us select a few cases, in different grades, 
from a single village — such as are abundant in every 
neighbourhood. 

Shane Thurlough, for example, “ as dacent a boy,” 
and Shane’s wife, “ as clane-skinned a girl,” as any in 
the world. There is Shane, an active, handsome- 
looking fellow, leaning over the half door of his 
cottage, kicking a hole in the wall with his brogue, 
and picking up all the large gravel stones within his 

( 342 ) 



INDEPENDENCE. 


343 

reach, wherewith to pelt those useful Irish scavengers, the ducks. Let us speak 
to him. 

“ Good morrow, Shane !” 

“ Och ! the bright bames of heaven on ye every day ! — and kindly welcome, 
my lady !— and won’t ye step in and rest ?— it ’s powerful hot, and a beautiful 
summer, sure — the Lord be praised !” 

“ Thank you, Shane. I thought you were going to cut the hay-field to-day ; 
if a heavy shower come, it will be spoiled : it has been fit for the scythe these 
two days.” 

“Sure, it’s all owing to that thief o’ the world, Tom Parrel, my lady. 
Didn’t he promise me the loan of his scythe ?— and, by the same token, I was 
to pay him for it ; and, depinding on that, I didn’t buy one — what I ’ve been 
threatening to do for the last two years.” 

“ But why don’t you go to Carrick and purchase one ?” 

“ To Carrick ! Och, ’ tis a good step to Carrick, and my toes are on the 
ground (saving your presence), for I depinded on Tim Jarvis to tell Andy Cap- 
pier, the brogue maker, to do my shoes ; and— bad luck to him, the spalpeen ! 
— he forgot it.” 

“ Where ’s your pretty wife, Shane V 9 

“ She ’s in all the woe o’ the world, ma’am dear ; and she puts the blame of 
it on me, though I ’m not in fault this time, any how : the child ’s taken the 
small pock ; and she depinded on me to tell the doctor to cut it for the cow- 
pock, and I depinded on Kitty Cackle, the limmer, to tell the doctor’s own man 
and thought she would not forget it, becase the boy’s her bachelor — but out o’ 
sight, out o’ mind — the never a word she tould him about it, and the babby has 
got it nataral, and the woman ’s in heart trouble (to say nothing o’ myself) — 
and it the first, and all.” 

“ I am very sorry, indeed, for you have got a much better wife than most 
men.” 

“ That ’s a true word, my lady — only she ’s fidgetty-like, sometimes ; and says 
I don’t hit the nail on the head quick enough ; and she takes a dale more trouble 
than she need about many a thing.” 

“ I do not think I ever saw Ellen’s wheel without flax before, Shane !” 

“ Bad cess to the wheel ! — I got it this morning about that, too — I depinded 
on John Williams to bring the flax from O’Flaharty’s this day week, and he 
forgot it ; and she says I ought to have brought it myself, and I close to the 
spot : but where ’s the good, says I, sure he ’ll bring it next time.” 

“ I suppose, Shane, you will soon move into the new cottage, at Clurn Hill. 
I passed it to-day, and it looked so cheerful ; and, when you get there, you 
must take Ellen’s advice, and depend solely on yourself.” 

“ Och, ma’am dear, don’t mintion it ! — it ’s that makes me so down in the 
mouth, this very minit. Sure I saw that born blackguard, Jack Waddy, and he 
comes in here, quite innocent-like — ‘Shane, you’ve an eye to ’Squire’s new 


K 


344 INDEPENDENCE. 

lodge V says he. 4 May-be I have,’ says I. ‘Pm yer man,’ says he. 4 How 
so V says I. 4 Sure I ’m as good as married to my lady’s maid,’ said he ; 4 and 
I ’ll spake to the ’Squire for you, my own self.’ 4 The blessing be about ye,’ 
says I, quite grateful — and we took a strong sup on the strength of it; and 
depinding on him I thought all safe ; — and what d’ ye think, my lady ! Why, 
himself stalks into the place — talked the ’Squire over, to be sure — and, without 
so much as 4 by yer lave,’ sates himself and his new wife on the laase in the 
house, and I may go whistle.” 

44 It was a great pity, Shane, that you didn’t go yourself to Mr. Clurn.” 

44 That ’s a true word for ye, ma’am dear ; but it ’s hard if a poor man can’t 
have a frind to depind on.” 

“James Doyle, General Dealer,” and a neat good-looking shop it was — 
double fronted — its multifarious contents, doubtless, very amusing. Mr. Doyle 
was a sleek, civil little man as any in the county, and much respected ; he 
would have been rich also, were it not that he was, unfortunately, a widower, 
with five daughters. If you had seen his well-stored counters and shelves, and 
the extraordinary crowd that assembled in his shop, you would have felt 
certain that everything was to be had within — pins, ribands, knives, scissors, 
tobacco-pipes, candles, mouse-traps, tea, soap, sugars, tape, thread, cotton, flax, 
wool, paper, pens, ink, snuff and snuff-boxes, beads, salt-herrings, cheese, butter, 
muslins (such beauties), calicoes (like cambric), linens (better than lawn), 
twine, ropes, slates, halters, stuffs, eggs, bridles, stockings, turf, delisk, pepper, 
mustard, vinegar, knitting-needles, books — namely, the 44 Reading made Easy 
44 Life of Freney, and his many wonderful escapes, showing how, after his being 
a most famous Robber, he lived and died a good Catholic Christian in the 
beautiful and celebrated town of Ross, in the ancient county of Wexford,” 
44 Valentine and Orson,” 44 Seven Champions of Christendom,” and such like — 
which books, by the way, turn the heads of half our little girls and boys. The 
village shop would have vended its finery to greater advantage, if there had 
been no direct communication with Wexford ; for it must be confessed that 
some of the pretty lasses took it into their heads to be dissatisfied with the 
goods at the big shop, and absolutely sent for their Sunday elegancies to the 
county town; but, nevertheless, James Doyle w r ould have made a fortune, if 
his five daughters had been willling to assist him in his business. Had you 
seen them, they would not have appeared like the industrious children of an 
English tradesman, who invariably think it their duty to make every effort for 
the well-doing of their family, and exert themselves, either at home or abroad, 
to procure 44 Independence.” Could the slatternly appearance of the five Misses 
Doyle, or their tawdry finery, designate any beings in the world except the 
daughters of an ill-regulated Irish shopkeeper? I say ill-regulated, because, 
truly, all are not so ; very far from it. Their mother died when they were 
young, and their father unadvisedly sent them to one of those hot-beds of prid6 


INDEPENDENCE. 


345 

and mischief, a “ fifteen pound” boarding-school in a garrison town, where they 
learned to work tent-stitch, and despise trade. When they returned, honest 
Doyle saw he could not expect anything from them in the way of usefulness, 
and not possessing much of that uncommon quality, miscalled common sense, he 
was contented to support them in idleness, hoping that their pretty faces might 
catch the unwary. 

“And sure,” said Miss Sally, the first-born, to Miss Stacy, the second 
hope of the family — “ haven’t we had six months a-piece at Miss Brick’s own 
school? — can’t our father affoord us a clear hundred each, down, in yallow 
guineas ? — hasn’t he got a thousand, may-be more, at the very laste pinny, in 
Wexford Bank? — and if he, with such a power o’ money, demanes himself by 
keeping a paltry shop, instead of living like a gentleman upon his property, and 
cutting a dash to get us dacent husbands, not bog-trotters, there ’s no rason in 
life why we should attind to it. I hope we have a better spirit, all of us, than 
to do the likes o’ that, indeed !” 

And so the five Misses Doyle chose the handsomest “ prints ” in the shop 
for their own especial use ; loitered the mornings en papillotte , lounging up 
the street, or down the street, or staring out of the window, their shoes slip- 
shod, and the torn-out strings replaced by pins, that invariably made one rent 
while they secured another; and in the evenings excited the stare of the silly, 
and the contempt of the wise, by their over-dressed, but ill-arranged, persons, 
parading in trumpery finery and French curls. Then they were perpetually 
quarrelling, although their tastes on matrimonial points were very similar ; and 
if a young farmer, or, more delightful still, a “boy” from Wexford or Water- 
ford, put up at the village — mercy bless us ! What a full cry ! Such a set ! — 
five to one ! 

Take a specimen of the quarrels of the five rivals ill love. 

“ Little good, Babby, there is in your trying to make anything dacent of that 
head of yours, as long as it ’s so bright a carroty.” “ It ’s no sich thing as 
carroty, Stacy, and, for the matter of that, look at yer own nose. Sure no one 
in life would think it worth their while to be afther a pug dog.” “ It’s good 
fun to hear the pair o’ ye argufying about beauty — beauty, indeed !” interrupted 
Miss Sally, tossing her head, and eying her really very pretty person in the 
cracked looking-glass. “ Oh, to be sure, you think yourself wonderful hand- 
some !” exlaimed two of the girls at once. “ I never could see any beauty in 
curds and whey,” continued she of the elevated nose. “ Ye little go-by-the- 
ground, keep out of my way,” said the tallest sister, Johanna, to the shortest, 
Cicely ; “ ye keep as much bother about yer dress, as if ye were a passable 
size.” “ Hould yer tongue, ye long gawky,” retorted the little one, “ there ’s no 
use in your dressing at the stranger boy — he ’s not a grenadier !” 

Poor Doyle ! Miss Sally ran off with a walking gentleman, who refused to 
marry her unless her portion was made three hundred pounds. “ Oh,” said 
the father, “the pride of my heart she was, but it’s bad to depind upon 
44 


INDEPENDENCE. 


346 

beauty!” True, Doyle, or upon anything — except well-regulated industry. 
If he would come into partnership, he might be useful, but the gentleman 
disdained trade. The poor father mortgaged part of his property, paid the 
money, and Sally was married ; but in less than a year, was returned on his 
hands with the addition of a helpless infant, the scorn of her unfeeling sisters. 
Stacy was the next to heap sorrow on the old man’s head ; she, to use her own 
expression, “ met with a misfortune,” for she depended on “ the boy’s” honour ; 
but her sin was too degrading to allow of her continuing in the house. Cicely 
married — honestly married, a daring, dashing smuggler, who, depending on his 
former good fortune, dared an exploit in the contraband trade, which would 
have banished him for ever from the country, had not Doyle again mortgaged 
his property to save him ; the young man’s good name was gone, however, 
and he lived depending on his father-in-law, who now began to suffer seriously 
from pecuniary embarrassment. Johanna married what was called well, that 
is, the young man was a gentleman farmer, too proud to look after his own 
affairs; he depended upon his “right-hand man,” or the goodness of the times, 
or anything but his own exertions, for his success — speculated, failed, prevailed 
on his unfortunate relative to bail him, and, in open defiance of truth and 
honesty, fled to America. 

Then, indeed, the wail and the woe resounded in that house where peace, and 
comfort, and happiness might have dwelt ; and the old man’s bed was the cold 
jail floor, and the family were scattered, and branded with sin and shame, and 
all for want of independent feelings. 

The Honourable Mister Augustus Headerton, who once lived in yonder villa, 
was the youngest of eleven children, and, consequently, the junior brother of the 
noble Lord of Headerton, nephew of the Honourable Justice Cleaveland, 
nephew of Admiral Barrymore, K. C. B., &c. &c. &c. ; and cousin, first, 
second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth or seventh remove — to half the honourables and 
dishonourables in the country. 

When the old Earl died, he left four Chancery suits, and a nominal estate, 
to the heir apparent, to whom he also bequeathed his three younger brothers 
and sisters, who had only small annuities from their mother’s fortune, being as- 
sured that (to use his own words) “ he might depend on him for the honour of 
the family to provide for them handsomely.” And so he did (in his own estima- 
tion) ; — his lady sisters had “ the run of the house,” and Mr. Augustus Header- 
ton had the run of the stables, the use of hunters and dogs, and was universally 
acknowledged to possess a “ proper spirit,” because he spent three times more 
than his income. “ He bates the world and all, for beauty, in the hunting jacket !” 
exclaimed the groom. He flies a gate beyant any living sowl I iver see ; and 
his tally-ho! my jewil — ’t would do yer heart good to hear his tally-ho !” said 
my Lord’s huntsman. “ He ’s a generous jintleman as any in the kingdom — 
I ’ll say that for him, any day in the year,” echoed the coachman. “ He ’s ad- 


INDEPENDENCE. 


347 


mired more nor any jintleman that walks Steven’s-green in a month o’ Sundays, 
I ’ll go bail,” continued Miss Jenny Roe, the ladies’ maid. 

“ Choose a profession ! ” Oh, no ! — impossible ! But the Honourable Mr. 
Augustus Headerton chose a wife, and threw all his relations, including Lord 
Headerton, the Honourable Justice Cleaveland, Admiral Barrymore, K. C. B., 
and his cousins to the fiftieth remove, into strong convulsions, or little fits. She, 
the lady, had sixty thousand pounds : that, of course, they could not object 
to. She had eloped with the honourable Mister Augustus Headerton; — 
mere youthful indiscretion. She was little and ugly; — that only concerned 
her husband. She was proud and extravagant ; — these were lady-like fail- 
ings. She was ignorant and stupid; her sisters-in-law would have pardoned 
that. She was vulgar ; — that was awkward. Her father was a carcass 
butcher in Cole’s-lane Market ! — death and destruction ! 

It could never be forgiven ! — the cut direct was unanimously agreed on, and 
the little lady turned up her little nose in disdain, as her handsome barouche 
rolled past the lumbering carriage of the Right Honourable Lord Headerton. 
She persuaded her husband to purchase that beautiful villa, in view of the 
family domain, that she might have more frequent opportunities of bringing, as 
she elegantly expressed it, “ the proud beggars to their trumps ; — and why not ? 
— money ’s money, all the w r orld over.” The Honourable Mister Augustus de- 
vended on his agent for the purchase, and some fwo thousand and odd pounds 
were consequently paid, or said to have been paid, for it, more than its value. 
And then commenced the general warfare ; full purse and empty head — versus 
no purse and old nobility. They had the satisfaction of ruining each other : 
in due course of time, the full purse was emptied by devouring duns, and the 
old nobility suffered by its connexion with vulgarity. 

“ I want to know, Honourable Mister Augustus Headerton,” (the lady always 
gave the full name when addressing her husband ; she used to say it was all 
she got for her money) — “I want to know, Honourable Mister Augustus 
Headerton, the reason why the music-master’s lessons, given to the Misses 
Headerton (they were blessed with seven sweet pledges of affection), have not 
been paid for ? I desired the steward to see to it, and you know I depend on 
him to settle these matters.” 

The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Headerton rang the bell — “Send 
Martin up.” 

“Mister Martin,” the lady began, “what is the reason that Mr. Langi’s 
account has not been paid?” 

« My master, ma’am, knows that I have been anxious for him to look over the 
accounts ; the goings-out are so very great, and the comings-in, as far as I 
k now — ” the Honourable Mister Augustus Headerton spilt some of the whiskey- 
punch he was drinking, over a splendid hearth-rug, which drew the lady’s atten- 
tion from what would have been an unpleasant eclaircissement. 

“ I cannot understand why difficulties should arise. I am certain I brought 


348 


INDEPENDENCE. 


a fortune large enough for all extravagance,” was the lady’s constant remark, 
when expenditure was mentioned. Years pass over the heads of the young— 
and they grow old and over the heads of fools — but they never grow wise. 

The Honourable Mister and Mistress Augustus Headerton were examples 
of this truth ; their children grew up around them — but could derive no sup- 
port from the parent root. The mother depended on governesses and masters 
for the education of her girls — and on their beauty, connexions, or accom- 
plishments, to procure them husbands. The father did not deem the labours 
of study, fit occupation for the sons of an ancient house : — “ Depend upon it,” 
he would say, “ they ’ll all do well with my connexions — they will be able to 
command what they please.” The Honourable Mistress Augustus could not 
now boast of a full purse, for they had long been living on the memory of their 
once ample fortune. 

The Honourable Mister Augustus Headerton died, in the forty-fifth year of his 
age, of inflammation, caught in an old limekiln, where he was concealed, to 
avoid an arrest for the sum of one hundred and eighty guineas, for Black Nell, 
the famous filly (who won the cup on the Curragh of Kildare) — purchased in 
his name, but without his knowledge, by his second son, the pride of the family, 
— commonly called Dashing Dick. 

All I know further of the Honourable Mistress Augustus Headerton 
is, that — 

“ She played at cards, and died.” 

Miss Georgiana — the beauty, and greatest fool of the family, who depended 
on her face as a fortune, did get a husband, — an old, rich, West India planter, 
and eloped, six months after marriage, with an officer of dragoons. 

Miss Celestina was really clever and accomplished. “ Use her abilities for 
her own support !” Oh, no ! — not for worlds ! Too proud to work, but not too 
proud to beg, she depended on her relations, and played toady to all who would 
have her. 

Miss Louisa — not clever ; but in all other respects, ditto — ditto. 

Miss Charlotte was always very romantic ; refused a respectable banker with 
indignation, and married her uncle’s footman — for love. 

Having sketched the female part of the family, I will tell you what I remem- 
ber of the gentlemen. 

“ The Emperor,” as Mr. Augustus was called, from his stately manner and 
dignified deportment, aided by as much self-esteem as could well be contained 
in a human body, depended , without any “ compunctious visitings of conscience,” 
on the venison, claret and champagne of his friends, and thought all the time he 
did them honour — and thus he passed his life. 

“ Dashing Dick” was the opposite of the Emperor ; sung a good song — told 
a good story — and gloried in making ladies blush. He depended on his cousin, 
Colonel Bloomfield’s procuring him a commission in his regiment, and cheated 









INDEPENDENCE. 


349 


tailors, hosiers, glovers, coach-makers, and even lawyers, with impunity. 
Happily for the world at large, Dashing Dick broke his neck, ir a steeple-chase, 
on a stolen horse, which he might have been hanged for purloin ng, had he lived 
a day longer. 

Ferdinand was the bonne-bouche of the family; they used to call him “the 
parson!” Excellent Ferdinand! — he depended on his own exertions; and, if 
ever the name of Headerton rises in the scale of moral or intellectual superiority, 
it will be owing to the steady and virtuous efforts of Mister Ferdinand Header- 

ton, merchant, in the good city of B ; for he possesses, in perfection, “the 

glorious privilege of being independent.” 




HOSPITALITY. 



OSPITALITY — no formality — there you ’ll ever 
see — so runneth the old song. Quite true — true to 
the very letter : and there was not a more hospitable 
house, in the province of Leinster, than Barrytown. 
“ Kindly welcome” was visibly expressed by every 
countenance, and all things bore the stamp of — “ Hos- 
pitality !” The master was large ; the house was 
large ; the trees were large ; the entrance-gates were 
large ; the servants were large ; all the domestic 
animals were large; the worthy owner’s heart was 
large — and so was his purse. He was cheerful and 
happy ; his house, particularly in the shooting or sum- 
mer season, was always full of company, more nu- 
merous than select, but all resolved to enjoy them- 
selves, and Mr. Barry, their worthy host, determined 
-+■ » to promote their enjoyment. I have said his house 
was large — it was almost magnificent. It stood on a gentle declivity, and com 
manded a pleasing, though not very extensive, prospect ; the entrance-hall was 

( 350 ) 





HOSPITALITY. 


351 

lofty, and wide ; the walls well-garnished with fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and 
at the farthermost end, the antediluvian horns of a monstrous elk, which spread 
even to the ceiling’s height. Of this extraordinary production of nature Mr. 
Barry was very proud, and boldly challenged the Dublin museum to produce its 
equal. The pavement of the hall was formed of beautiful Kilkenny marble ; 
its polish certainly had departed, yet the rich and varied veins were distinctly 
visible. Dogs of various sizes — from the stately Dane, the graceful staghound, 
the shaggy Newfoundland — to the fawning spaniel, the little rat-catching, black- 
muzzled terrier, and the sleepy, silky Blenheim — considered the hall as their 
own exclusive property, yet lived on terms of perfect good-fellowship with a 
Killarney eagle, a Scotch raven, and a beautiful Angola cat, who shared the 
same territory ; the latter, indeed, looked upon a deer-skin covered couch as 
dedicated to her sole use and benefit. 

The great dining-room was worthy of such an entrance ; it was wainscoted 
with black oak, and, at the top of the apartment, the extreme darkness of the 
wood threw into strong relief the massive sideboard, with its highly-wrought, 
antique plate. The dining-table rested on enormous pillars, and bore evident 
marks of having seen good service in convivial times ; the chairs were high- 
backed, and richly carved, cushioned with crimson damask ; and the large 
wine-coolers, and plate-buckets were rimmed and hooped with silver. “ The 
family canvass,” in heavy framework, smiled or frowned along the walls, just 
as they ought to smile or frown ; and represented, to say the truth, a grim, 
clumsy-looking set of personages ; even the pastoral young lady, who was play- 
ing on a pipe — the sheep (I suppose they were sheep) looking tearfully in her 
face — her well-powdered hair graced by a celestial blue riband : even she, the 
beauty of the party, squinted most frightfully. But the good Mr. Barry had a 
profound veneration for them all, so we will leave them without further com- 
ment. The curtains and carpet had seen their best days, and Mr. Barry had 
been talking about purchasing new for the last ten years ; nevertheless, the old 
remained, and certainly looked very venerable. The withdrawing-room, or, as 
the “ master” called it, the ladies’ proper apartment, held a motley assemblage 
of new and old furniture ; a splendid rosewood piano was placed next to a 
towering old triangular flower-stand, with monkey heads, and scallop shells at 
the corners, but which, nevertheless, served as a “ what not.” Silken 
Ottomans reclined in eastern luxury, near to less elegant, but more sedate 
hard-stuffed sofas ; and a lumbering old arm-chair, covered with cream- 
coloured embroidered satin, the cushion fringed and tasseled with gold, stood 
to the right of the fire-place ; a small stool, garnished after the same antique 
fashion, and a little table inlaid with silver, which appeared hardly able to 
support an old family Bible, with studded clasps, were placed beside it. 

The interesting occupier of the arm-chair was no less a person than Lady 
Florence Barry, the mother of the hospitable master. I never saw so beautiful 
a relic of female nobility ; when I remember her, she was verging on her nine- 
tieth birth-day ; her figure delicate and much bent; her eye black as jet, small 


HOSPITALITY. 


352 

and sparkling, fringed by brows and lashes which time had rendered per- 
fectly white. Her features had been handsome, but at such an age were much 
wrinkled, and her own hair straightly combed from under the high lappet cap, 
added to her venerable appearance. The dress she wore was always of the 
most valuable black Genoa velvet or satin, made after the olden mode, with 
deep ruffles of Mechlin or Brussels lace, and a small cloak of rich black silk, 
fastened at the breast with a diamond brooch. The old lady was very deaf, 
but her sight was perfect ; and when she received her son’s guests, she did it 
with so much grace, so much dignity, that it could never be forgotten. Per- 
haps the affectionate respect and attention manifested by Mr. Barry to his 
mother was the most delightful trait in his character. “ She brought noble 
blood, and a princely dower to my father,” he would say, “ and made him a true 
and loving wife to the end of his days ; and when, in the full bloom of woman* 
hood, she became husbandless, for my sake she remained so. Can I honour her 
too much V 9 

Mr. Barry had nothing in particular to distinguish him from “ the raale 
true-born gintry.” He had a fair and open brow, that unerring index to a 
noble soul, and a manly expression of countenance ; but he had more of his 
father’s heedlessness than of his mother’s penetration, and, at sixty-two, knew 
less of “ the world” than most of our fashionables after they have been “ a win- 
ter in London.” 

The domestics at Barrytown had grown grey in their services — in 
verity, all things in the house were “ of a piece” except the visiters ; they 
ruined the harmony of the picture, while they gave spirit and variety to the 
colouring. 

The month was June, which is more like May in England, for our skies shed 
many tears, even in the summer time ; as usual, the coach-houses and stables 
were crowded ; the former with gigs, “ suicides,” and jaunting-cars outside and 
in ; the latter with all manner of ponies and horses. The servant’s hall, too, was 
full, and a “ shake-down” had been ordered even in Mr. Barry’s own study, a 
gloomy, dusty place, almost untidy enough to be the studio of a literary man — ■ 
that odious receptacle for books and spiders ; when old Mary said to old Mabby 
— long Mabby, as she was generally called : — 

“ Mabby, honey, my drame ’s out — for, upon my conscience, if yon, on the 
broken-down-looking jingle of a jaunting-car, isn’t Miss Spinner, and her ould 
trunk ; and her ould maid that ’s as botherin’ a’most as her divil of a mistress. 
Och ! it wasn’t for nothing I dramed of a blue-bottle fly upon master’s nose, 
buz, buz, about like a mill-wheel ! — the jazey ! — there she is, as yellow as a 
Yarrow blossom.” 

“ Why, thin, it ’s herself, sure enough,” responded Mabby ; “ and if she had 
stayed in Dublin, ’mong the larned people she ’s always talking about, none of 
us would have asked what kept her. Och ! it ’s true as I ’m standin’ here, she ’s 
got a new wig.” 

“New nonsense!” said Molly, “it’s only fresh grased. I’ll not go look 


HOSPITALITY. 


353 

after her things ; a month won’t excuse her out o’ this, and no mortal ever saw 
cross or coin afther her yet. Where ’ll she sleep ? Sure there ’s *wo in a bed 
all over the house, barrin’ master’s. Mabby, count how many there is in now ; 
I ’ll tell thim over — the best first : — Mr. Altern, his two hunters, and the groom, 
to say nothin’ of the dogs,* but he ’s a generous jintleman, and the groom ’s a 
hearty boy.” 

“ That ’s four,” said Mabby. 

“ Och, you born sinner !” replied Molly, “ sure it ’s not going to count the 
Christians with the bastes, ye are V 9 

“ Tell over the Christians, thin.” 

“ Well, thin, that’s two. Miss Raymond — in raale goodness she ought to go 
for two, the jewil !” 

“ Three.” 

“ Mrs. Croydon, Miss Lilly, Miss Livy, the footman (bad cess to that fellow ! 
— the conceated walk of him is parfectly sickening, coming over us wid his 
Dublin airs), and my lady’s maid, to be sure.” 

“ You’ve forgot Mr. Wortley.” 

“ Why, thin, I oughtn’t to do that, for he never forgets anybody — he ’s both 
rich and kind ; although he ’s an Englishman, I ’d go from this to Bargy on 
my bare hands and feet to do a good turn for that gintleman — there isn’t one in 
the house (of the visiters I mane) I ’d do a civility for so soon, only Miss Ray- 
mond. What a pity it is that young lady hasn’t some yellow guineas of her 
own ! Mr. Wortley is mighty sweet upon her, I think. Och, then, ’t is herself, 
the darlint, ’ud make the nice wife for him ! — but the English, the poor narrow- 
minded craturs, are all for the money, you know.” 

“Well, Mabby, any way, that’s nine. Miss Spinner, and her follower, 
sure !” 

“ Eleven.” 

“ That foolish-looking clip of a boy, that looks mighty like a gauger, and his 
comrade that hunts among the ould places for curiosities, and their outlandish 
man, Friday, as I hard Miss Raymond call him.” 

“ Fourteen — and no bad increase to a family that always, when by itself, sits 
down twinty to dinner, counting the parlour, servant’s hall, and second table, 
not to reckon the weeders and the gossoons ; to be sure, the bit they ate is 
never missed ; how could it, from a gintleman like our master ? — the blessing 
be about him ! My honoured mistress smiled as I passed her in the corridory 
to-day ; well, she is very ould — and yet so cheerful ; and, though she’s little, 
there’s a stateliness about her that always made me the smallest taste in 
,ife afeard ; but she was wmnderful good in her time, and master dotes down 
upon her.” 

After this dialogue, the two old housemaids departed, mutually determining 
to avoid Miss Spinner, who seemed to be the terror of the establishment. 

In the drawing room, the greater part of the visiters were assembled, await- 
ng the ringing of the dressing-bell. Lady Florence, as usual, in her cream- 
45 


HOSPITALITY. 


354 

coloured cushioned chair, reading her- Bible ; Miss Raymond sketching flowers 
from nature — white and blue peas, and a china rose; Mr. Wortley, neither 
absolutely sitting nor lounging, on one of the old-fashioned sofas, was appa- 
rently engaged in looking over a large rolled map ; Mrs. Croydon, netting ; 
Miss Livy, and Miss Letty, the one attitudinising, and winding a skein of silk 
— which the other held so as to display her little white hands to advantage ; 
when, at length, Miss Letty broke silence by asking — 

“ La, ma’ ! — who do you think is come V 9 

“ How should I know, child V 9 replied her mother, looking up from her net- 
ting ; “ our party is so very pleasant” — and she smiled a gracious smile all 
around — “ that I could hardly wish it increased.” 

Mr. Wortley smiled also, but it was a different sort of smile. 

“ Guess, Livy.” 

“ I never guess right. Mr. Mr. ” 

“ It ’s not a Mr. at all.” 

“ I wonder you guess at Misters,” said ma’, with an aside drawing-down of 
the brow ; “lam sure, my love, you care so little about gentlemen — at least so 
I used to hear at the castle, where my little Olivia thought fit to be so frigid ; I 
wonder, child, you mention Misters .” 

The young lady, who was not as accomplished a manceuvrer as her mamma, 
saw she had done wrong, although she did not know exactly how to amend her 
error, and wisely held her tongue. 

“ Guess, Gertrude,” recommenced Miss Letitia, “ Gertrude Raymond, can’t 
you guess ? — well, then, I will tell you — Miss Spinner.” 

“ Oh, mercy,” screamed Miss Olivia and her mamma, “ that blue ! Oh, Miss 
Raymond! — Oh, Mr. Wortley! — oh! what will poor Mr. Altern say! Mr. 
Barry asked her once, and she makes it a general invitation ! — oh, I shall he 
afraid to open my lips ! — sha’n’t you, Gertrude V y 

“ No,” replied Gertrude, laughing. 

“ Oh ! you are so wise, Miss Raymond,” said Miss Letitia, “ that you are not 
afraid of anybody! — I dare say you would not mind a bit being in company 
with Sir Walter Scott, or Lady Morgan, or Doctor Johnson !” 

“ Hush, my dear !” interrupted Mrs. Croydon, who, it must be confessed, had 
enough to do to keep the levity of one daughter, and the ignorance of the other, 
within bounds ; “ Hush ! — you know Miss Raymond has had many advantages, 
and she is older than you — so she has less reason to fear clever people; 
but you are such a nervous little darling!” — and mamma, in patting the 
“ little darling’s” cheek, managed to give it (unperceived by the rich Mr. 
Wortley) a little pinch, which said, as plainly as pinch could say, “ Hold your 
tongue !” 

o» 

“ Nobody has any reason to fear really clever people,” said Mr. Wortley, 
rising from the sofa, and joining, for the first time, in the conversation, if so it 
might be called ; “ and certainly not Miss Raymond,” he continued, bowing to 


HOSPITALITY. 


355 

Gertrude ; who immediately bent more closely over her drawing than W’as at 
all necessary, for be it known that she had very good sight. 

“ There ’s a compliment from the sober Mr. Wortley !” laughed Olivia ; “ who 
ever heard of such a thing before 1” 

“ It would be impossible to compliment Miss Olivia Croydon,” replied the 
gentleman ; “ her beauty is so universally acknowledged that it needs not my 
poor commendation.” The silly girl looked pleased at extorted flattery. 

Mrs. Croydon was the widow of a general officer, and in twenty years’ cam- 
paigning had seen a good deal of “ the world.” She was a pretty and a vain 
woman. As her husband fell in love with her at a garrison ball, and as she 
calculated on a similar destiny for her daughters, she resolved on adding to 
their beauty every accomplishment under the sun, as they were nearly portion- 
less. What hosts of masters ! Painting on velvet, japanning, oriental tinting, 
music, dancing, singing, fencing, riding, French — everything in the world ex- 
cept the solid usefulness of education. Accomplished they certainly were, but 
not educated. 

Alas ! how many lovely women shed tears of bitterness — when the flush of 
youth and fashion has passed, never to return — over hours spent in the acquire- 
ment of frivolous accomplishments, which, if occupied in the improvement of 
qualities that shed a halo and diffuse a perfume over home — woman’s best and 
brightest earthly dominion — would have made them useful and beloved, even to 
the end of their days. 

Mrs Croydon “ carried on the war,” as Mr. Altern used to say, “ most 
famously.” She had good connexions; and, as her daughters’ education, to 
use her own words, “ was completed under first-rate masters,” she resolved to 
devote herself to her friends, and let her house in Dublin except for three 
months in the year, when it was absolutely indispensable that she should attend 
the Castle festivities, “for her daughters’ sake — heigho ! — she had no taste, 
now, for the world’s pleasures!” — Nevertheless, many suspected that she 
would not have objected to become Lady of Barrytown — a thing by no means 
likely, as Mr. Barry looked upon her in no other light than as the widow of his 
old friend. 

Mr. Wortley, also, was an object of much interest to the lady. He admired 
beauty — so Miss Olivia was instructed to play off her best looks and best 
airs. He admired music — and Miss Letitia sung, until he was tired, all the 
cavatinas that Mozart and Rossini ever composed. Fine girls and fine singers 
often go too far, and “ overshoot the mark they are perpetually assaulting 
your eyes or your ears, until both ache even to weariness. Nothing, uncon- 
nected with intellect, can please long ; we soon grow weary of scentless flowers, 
and senseless beauties. At all events, the ladies deserved some praise for their 
perseverance in the siege — although their efforts w 7 ere somewhat like those of 
three nautilus shaming Gibraltar. 

Gertrude Raymond was a being of a very different order. Her figure was 
large — more dignified than elegant; her features, when tranquil, had an ex- 


356 


HOSPITALITY. 


pression of hauteur ; her brow was lofty and expanded ; her eyes, deep and 
well set ; her skin, nearly olive ; her hair rivalled the raven’s wing ; her cheek 
was, in general, colourless, except when her feelings were excited, and then 
the rich blood glowed through the dark surface with the deep colouring of the 
damask rose, the eyes brightened, and the generally placid Gertrude Raymond 
burst upon you in all the magnificence of beauty ! Born of a noble but de- 
cayed family, and left an orphan at three years old, this high-minded young 
woman was adopted by an elderly maiden relative, the only one who retained 
wealth and influence. Gertrude, of course, had numerous enemies — for no 
other reason than that she came between certain persons who entertained 
certain views on a certain property. Wherever there is a “long-tailed 
family,” there is much grappling and intrigue to know who holds the best 
cards. Miss Raymond had, of course, observed the various schemes pursued 
by her cousins, but with no other emotion than that of pity. She pursued a 
course of undeviating rectitude, in opposition to their petty manceuvrings. Her 
aged friend was a woman whose temper had been soured by much early mis- 
fortune ; and Miss Raymond bore her caprices from grateful, not from interest- 
ed feelings. 

When Gertrude had attained her seventeenth year, Miss, or, as she was 
usually called, Mrs. Dorrington, resolved to leave her country house, near 
Barrytown, and reside for a time in Bath. The principal object of this change, 
she declared, was her anxiety that Miss Raymond should receive all the advan- 
tages of finishing-masters, and polished English society, as she would inherit 
the greater part of her fortune. It is impossible to conceive anything like the 
sensation this avowal excited ! An earthquake was nothing to it ! All the 
cousins to the fourteenth remove, were in dreadful consternation ; public and 
private committees assembled ; and all minor jealousies were, for a time, for- 
gotten, in order that the common enemy — poor Gertrude ! — might be dispos- 
sessed from the strong hold she held in her rich relative’s good opinion. 

“ It is quite bad enough,” said one, “ to have her put over all our heads, 
and she very little nearer the old lady than ourselves ; but to leave the country 
and go off, like a duchess, to Bath, and be pampered up, is too much, entirely.” 
“ It ’s enough to break a heart of stone,” said another, “ to see her riding 
here and riding there, in the carriage, and looking so mealy-mouthed all the 
time ; and her kindness to the poor — all put on to gain popularity.” They 
plotted and plotted, and planned and planned, but to no purpose ; go the old 
lady would, and go she did. In vain did the enemy declare their deep sorrow 
at parting, for a time, with their beloved Mrs. Dorrington, and their “ dear Miss 
Gurry in vain did they offer, either singly, or in a body (forty-five of them, 
at the very least) to accompany their sweet friends to Bath, or all over the 
world at any personal sacrifice, rather than suffer them to go alone amongst 
strangers. Mrs. Dorrington thanked them for their attention, and abruptly 
replied that two thousand per annum made a home of any hotel in England, 
and friends of all strangers ; and that she was able to take care of Gertrude, 


HOSPITALITY. 


357 

and Gertrude was able to take care of her. The poor of the neighbourhood 
sorrowed sincerely after their young benefactress. Mr. Barry knew more of 
Miss Raymond’s charities than any other person, for she never failed to send 
him, from Bath, little sums of money, and presents for her poor pensioners. 
Mrs. Dorrington was quite right in her estimation of society ; she had soon 
plenty of friends at Bath, and Miss Raymond’s attractions drew many admirers 
to their house. 

It is a difficult thing to find an Irish agent who performs his duty like an 
English one ; a circumstance, perhaps, more to be attributed to want of busi- 
ness-knowledge than want of inclination. Mrs. Dorrington’s remittances were 
delayed beyond all bearing ; and after “ absenteeing” for some time, she sur- 
prised Gertrude one morning by informing her that she had made up her mind 
to go over to Ireland for a fortnight or three weeks, and look into her own 
affairs, that wanted arranging. “It will astonish them all,” she continued, 
“ to see the old woman looking so well ; and, as you have so often promised 
Mrs. Ackland to spend a little time with her at Clifton, we will sepa- 
rate there; and I will not be absent more than three weeks. I shall 
certainly never suffer you to revisit Ireland, until you are married in that 
sphere of life which your birth, and the property I have left you , entitles 
you to.” 

Gertrude had not permitted any opportunity to pass, that enabled her to say 
a few words in favour of her relatives : for self was never uppermost in her 
mind. But Mrs. Dorrington’s reserved, and even austere manners to her 
dearest earthly tie, were seldom even so bland as to permit such observations. 
Gertrude accompanied her friend to Clifton, and saw her departure with sin- 
cere sorrow ; she yearned to behold the green hills of her country, and the dear 
companions of her childhood: but Mrs. Dorrington’s fiat was not to be dis- 
puted. The first letter she received contained a long description of the bad 
management that had occurred during her absence, and her resolve to set all 
to rights before she returned to England. The next was filled with details 
of sundry arrangements ; and then came a long silence. No letters ; post 
succeeded post ; no intelligence. At length came a letter from Mr. Barry ; 
Mrs. Dorrington, he informed her, was seriously ill, and begged she would 
come over immediately. No packet sailed that day; the next brought 
another account — her friend was dead. The shock was more than she could 
bear; and, when she arose from a couch of suffering and sorrow, several 
letters were presented to her by the lady of the house. The two principal 
were — one from her old and steady friend, Mr. Barry, entreating, if she knew 
of the existence of a will, to see to it at once, as the heir-at-law had already 
taken possession of the property, on the presumption that no document existed 
leaving any provision at all for her : — the other, from the heir himself, desiring 
that all the letters, papers, and personal property of “ the late Miss Dorrington, 
(how that cold sentence wounded !) should be forthwith delivered to Mr. 


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358 

Scrapthorne, Attorney-at-law, Back Lane, Bristol; who was empowered 
to take possession of the same. 

“ From, Madam, yours, 

“ Thomas Dorrington.” 

The very abject, who but six months before had requested “ the always kind 
interference of his friend (whom he was proud to call relative), Miss Raymond, 
with that most respected lady, Mrs. Dorrington, to beg he might have forty 
acres of the upper farm now out of lease, on fair terms, and a loan of thirty 
pounds to help to stock it. 

“ From your humble servant to command, 

“ And most faithful cousin, 

“ Thomas Dorrington.” 

Poor Gertrude ! the ingratitude manifested by the last epistle — for she had 
procured the man sixty pounds, and obtained his other request — aroused all her 
energies, and .diligent search was made for a will ; but no document, even al- 
luding to one, could be discovered. Everybody felt for “ poor Miss Raymond.” 
“ Such a melancholy change !” “Pity she was not married before!” “ Hard 
fate !” “ Very distressing !” Some asked her “ to spend a few days until she 
fixed upon her future plans;” others extended their invitation to an entire 
month ; but Lady Florence Barry, albeit unused to letter-writing* added the 
following postscript to her son’s letter, which was despatched when all hopes 
of finding a will were abandoned : — “ I am old, Gertrude ; my hand trembles, 
and my eyes are dim ; but my heart is warm, warmer towards you now than 
in your sunnier days. Come to us — be to us as a child, and your society will 
bestow a blessing which we will endeavour to repay.” 

Gertrude’s reply to this generous offer was at once simple and dignified. 

“ It is not,” she said, “ that I do not value your kindness, dear and beloved 
friends, above every earthly blessing, but I cannot live dependent even on you. 

I have accepted a situation as governess in Lady B ’s family, and I will 

endeavour to do my duty in that sphere of life unto which it hath pleased God 
to call me. Believe me, the change must serve; I almost think I was too 
uplifted. I have now put my trust in God, who will do what seemeth best 
unto him. To-morrow I leave this place, its false and glittering friends, to 
enter on my new duties in London. I am promised a month’s holiday, and if I 
can summon fortitude to visit Ireland, I will see you then. I hear the new pos- 
sessor has sold all off, even the ornaments of the old mansion; — that is heart- 
rending. But, worst of all, my poor pensioners ! — however, I shall be able to 
spare them something out of my earnings — my earnings ; but let me not be un- 
thankful ; I remember, with gratitude, that my education has saved me from the 
bitterness of dependence .” 

In a decent, solitary cabin, on the Dorrington estate, resided nurse Keefe, 
so called from having “ fostered” Miss Raymond. She was considered bv her 


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359 


neighbours “ a remarkable well-bred, dacent woman and, when Gertrude 
left Ireland, the faithful creature would have accompanied “ her foster child,” 
had it not been that her husband was in ill health, and demanded all her atten- 
tion ; he died about six weeks before Mrs. Dorrington, but nurse had made up 
her mind to return with the lady to England; her sudden death, of course, 
prevented it, and nurse Keefe awaited “ her dear child’s coming home to take 
possession of her own mourned for the dead, and rejoiced in her young 
lady’s prospects almost at the same moment. When she heard that the pro- 
perty was going into other hands, nothing could exceed her grief; she was 
almost frantic, and abused the heir-at-law in no measured terms, declaring that 
he had made away with the will, and all were thieves and rogues. Mr. Barry 
assured her he was using his exertions to induce Miss Raymond to reside with 
his mother ; and that information afforded her some little comfort ; but when 
she found that her nursling was going as governess to a family, the poor 
creature’s misery was truly distressing. She returned to her cottage with a 
breaking heart, and did not even go to Barrytown to inquire after “ Miss 
Gurry” for three weeks. When she again made her appearance there, she 
astounded Mr. Barry with the information that she had “ canted all her bits o’ 
things,” had drawn what money she had saved up in the bank out of it, given 
up her farm, and was absolutely setting off to London to see “ her child,” 
as she generally called her. “ I ’m not going to be a burthen, sir,” she said 
to Mr. Barry, when he pointed out to the affectionate creature, the folly of her 
journey.. “ I have as good as a hundred-and-twinty pounds, solid gould and 
silver, that ’s not mine, but hers, now she happens to want it — more ’s the pity ! 
Sure it was by sarving her I got it, which makes it hers whin she ’s distressed 
(that I should live to see it !) if not in law, anyhow in justice, which is the 
best law, without any manner of doubt. So I ’ll jist take it her myself, to save 
the postage ; and I ’m stout and strong, and able to get up fine linen, and clear- 
starch, with any she in the kingdom of England ; and sure she ’ll be able to get 
me plinty of work ; and that trifle can lay in the London Bank for her, whin 
she wants any little thing, as sure she must ; and I ’ll be near her to keep her 
from being put upon, by them English. And, God be praised I ’m able to stand 
up for her still, and make her sensible of the honour she ’s doing them by stay- 
ing there at all. And now my blessing, and the blessing of the poor be about 
yer honour ! You’ll not see me until I can’t be of any use to Miss Raymond 
— the angel !” 

So nurse Keefe journeyed to London ; and, at last, found herself at Hyde 
Park Corner, quite bewildered by the crowd and noise, and endeavouring to 
make her way to Grosvenor Place. Her quaint appearance attracted attention, 
as she passed along. Short black silk cloak — white dimity petticoat — shoes 
and silver buckles — small black “ mode” bonnet, hardly shading her round good- 
natured face, were singular gear, even in London ; and her rich brogue when 

ever she inquired, “ if any one could tell her where Lady B ’s and her 

young lady’s house, was, in Grosvenor-place,” caused a universal laugh, which 


360 


HOSPITALITY. 


she did not at all relish. She stood at the corner opposite Hyde Park, gazing 
wildly abcut, resolved not to ask any more questions, when a gentleman good- 
naturedly inquired, “ if she was looking for any particular house.” 

« Is it looking ! — troth, and I am, sir, till I ’m blind and stupid, and can see 
nothing — God help me ! — with the noise and the people, skrimitching and fight- 
ing ; they may hould their tongues about the wild Irish ; the English here, I ’m 
sure, are all mad ; but as ye ’re so kind, and, no doubt, knowledgeable, may-be 

you could tell me the way to one Lady B ’s, and my young lady’s, who 

lives somewhere hereabouts in Grosvenor-place.” 

“ Lady B ’s !” repeated the stranger ; “lam going there, and you may 

follow me, if you please.” The gentleman walked on, and the delighted nurse 
breathlessly addressed him : — 

“ Ah, then, sir, every joy in heaven to ye! — and sure ye know my young 
lady I” 

“ I have not that pleasure.” 

“ I ax yer pardon, but ye said ye knew Lady B .” 

“ I do.” 

“ Well, yer honour, sure my young lady stops with her.” 

“ No young lady, that I know of, lives there, except — oh, I have heard of a 
young Irish lady, a governess, I believe ; but, of course, she is not seen.” 

“ Not seen !” repeated nurse, who had no idea that Miss Raymond could be 
excluded from any society : “ is she sick, sir ?” 

“ Not that I know of ; but I suppose she is in the nursery, or study, or some- 
where with the children.” 

This information could not be borne silently, and she told the gentleman the 
history of her “ young lady,” with so much earnestness, that, although he was 
much interested, he heartily wished himself housed ; for nurse Keefe’s eloquence 

attracted a crowd. As they ascended the steps of Lady B ’s residence, 

Gertrude and her pupils were descending. The poor creature sprang forward, 
fell on her knees, and grasped Miss Raymond’s dress, unable, fortunately, 
from her violent agitation, to utter a sentence. The face of an old friend is 
more delightful than sunshine in winter. Gertrude raised the aged woman to 
her bosom ; and, heedless of the presence of strangers, burst into tears. When, 
after the lapse of an hour, nurse Keefe and Miss Raymond were seated in the 
study appropriated to Gertrude’s use, the faithful creature opened her simple 
plan to her foster-child, and endeavoured to impress on her mind that the 
money she had brought, carefully wrapped in an old stocking, belonged to 
Gertrude. Much did the good nurse regret that she could not make “her 
darlint” understand this; and Miss Raymond, in her turn, laboured as fruit- 
lessly to convince her that she was perfectly happy, and treated quite as she 
ought to be. 

“ I can’t believe it — I can’t believe it, Miss, machree ! — How could I, whin 
that fine-spoken young gentleman tould me he never set eyes upon you, 
although he came often to the house? D’ye think I’ve no sense? — or that 


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361 


E ’m out an’ out a fool ? — Sure, it r s well I remimber, after yer angel of a mo- 
ther died, whin ye came to be Mrs. Dorrington’s child (who had no born child, 
on account she was an ould maid), that I used to have to bring ye into the 
grand parlour as good as tin times a day, in order that they might all admire 
yer beauty ; and lords and ladies, and even mimbers of Parliament, fighting like 
cat an’ dog for the first kiss, and I fighting to keep them from dragging the 
head off o’ ye. And now to be in a bit of an English lady’s family, as a sort 
of a— Oh ! ullagone ! ullagone ! — my poor ould heart ’ill split !” 

Gertrude had some difficulty in pacifying her ; convincing was out of the 
question. ’’Well, may-be so, my dear. Happy!— I can’t understand it ; may- 
be so !” 

The next thing was to provide a lodging for nurse Keefe ; and, as she soon 
placed what she called Miss Raymond’s “ trifle o’ money” in a banker’s hands, 
she became anxious for employment. Lady B., who was really kind and 
amiable, was highly pleased with the poor woman’s generous feelings, and, in 
less than a month, the good nurse had more clearstarching, and “ fine-plaiting” 
than she could manage. Thus, to use her own words, “ the money powered 
in upon her.” She visited Gertrude once or twice a week, and never came 
empty-handed ; nuts, oranges, and cakes, were her general presents ; but some- 
times she added pieces of gay riband, and two or three yards of lace. The 
person who gave her most employment, and paid her best, was her kind con- 
ductor when she first visited Grosvenor-place. The gentleman knew some- 
thing of the neighbourhood where Miss Raymond had resided, for Mr. Barry 
and his father had been college friends at Oxford, and he often chatted with 
nurse Keefe when she brought home shirts and cravats (“ that would bate the 
snow for whiteness”) to his lodgings in St. James’s-street, and highly gratified 
her by the information that, as he occasionally joined Lady B.’s family circle, — 
he had sometimes the pleasure of seeing Miss Raymond. She was a little 
mortified that he did not praise her young lady, as she thought everybody 
ought to do, but consoled herself by muttering, as she went home— “Well, it’s 
mighty quare, but these Englishmen are afeard of wearing out their tongues ; 
who knows, for all that, but, may-be, he ’s like the countryman’s goose, that 
thought all the more for not spaking.” 

Mr. Wortley, for it was the self-same gentleman, did think much on every 
subject, but latterly, more of Gertrude than of any other ; he had not seen her 
often, but he had heard of her a great deal. Lady B. spoke of Miss Raymond 
in the highest terms, and the children manifested the strongest attachment 
towards their “ dear, kind governess.” “ She is always so dignified and cor- 
rect,” said her ladyship ; “ and is never out of temper,” said little Jessica ; “ and 
although she is sometimes melancholy,” added Miss Clorinda, the eldest of the 
children, “which is not to be wondered at, because once she had almost — 
almost as much money as mamma, yet she smiles away her sorrows so sweetly 
and sings for us of an evening, as well — indeed, quite as well — as Miss Ste- 
phens, and very like her, too, the ballads that make one weep.” “ Dear mam- 
46 


362 


HOSPITALITY. 


ma said Charles, a rosy boy of seven years old, “ do coax Miss Raymond 
to drink tea in the drawing-room with us to-night; she will never come when 
there’s company; but Mr. Wortley, you know, is an old friend, and nobody; 
— and then she will sing for us; — do, mamma.” The request was readily 
granted, and he ran off with a message from mamma, begging Miss Raymond 
would that evening take tea in the drawing-room. He stopped at the door, 
and said playfully to Mr. Wortley, who had been some time in the room, 
“Mind, I heard you Say to papa, the other day, that you wanted a wife; 
— now, you shan’t have my Miss Raymond, for she shall be my wife, when 
I ’m a man.” 

“ Dignified and correct — never out of temper — with much reason to be sor- 
rowful, and yet chasing it away, even to the gratifying of childhood ; and sing- 
ing — I never, never heard any woman sing with half so much feeling. What 
an admirable wife she would make !” So soliloquised Mr. Wortley, when 
he left the family party one evening; and, of course, came to the resolution 
of knowing more of this “ very interesting and superior woman.” That, 
however, was not easily accomplished : the education of Lady B.’s children 
occupied all Gertrude’s time ; and even if the duties of her situation had not 
prevented it, she had so recently smarted from fashionable fickleness, that she 
was not at all inclined to stake even an hour’s happiness upon it again. When 
Mr. Wortley met her, his very anxiety to render himself agreeable made him 
awkward. He experienced, however, some alarm, when he found that Ger- 
trude Raymond was going to spend two entire months at Barrytown, during 
Lady B.’s intended tour on the Continent ; and thought he would speak to her 
at once as well as he could; but a little reflection convinced him that this 
would be the most effectual way to obtain a decided refusal, as he could have 
yet made no progress in her affections, and he knew her mind was too noble to 
calculate merely upon worldly advantages in a matrimonial connexion. After 
much pro and con, he resolved to speak to Lady B. on the subject, and, 
without waiting for his curricle, walked quickly towards Grosvenor-place. 
When he arrived, he was informed that Miss Raymond, attended by nurse 
Keefe and Lady B.’s own footman, had just departed for Ireland ; and that 
Lady B. was completing her arrangements previous to her Continental tour. 
He felt a strong inclination to visit Ireland. “Every man of liberal feeling 
should make the tour of the sister Isle — he wondered he had never thought 
of it before ; the Lakes of Killarney were celebrated all over the world — the 
Giant’s Causeway, too, one of the most wonderful works of nature — the County 
Wicklow — the Yale of Avoca — (he repeated Moore’s lines to the beautiful 
valley, with absolute enthusiasm). Besides, there was his father’s old college 
friend, Mr. Barry ; he had seen him in England during his parent’s lifetime, 
and knew he would be so glad to receive him — dear old gentleman ! — how 
delightful to talk with him of his father ! It was, really, very ungrateful not 
to have visited him before; and, now that London was quite empty, (the car- 
riages were jostling at every corner), he must go to the country — and he would 


HOSPITALITY. 


363 

go to Ireland.” Accordingly he wrote immediately to Mr. Barry, informed 
him of his anxiety to pay his respects to his father’s old friend, and explore 
the beauties of a country he had heard so much of; hoped he should not 
inconvenience Mr. B.— would await his answer at Milford ; and concluded by 
saying that he earnestly requested he would not mention his intended visit to 
any one, except Lady Florence, as he had a particular — very particular 
reason, indeed — for not wishing it mentioned, which he would hereafter 
explain. 

There is a sort of freemasonry in goodness, that none but the good can 
understand. Mr. Barry, very soon after Mr. Wortley’s arrival, both knew and 
approved of his manly and disinterested attachment to his young friend ; sin- 
cerely rejoiced at the prospect of wealth and happiness that was brightening 
before her ; and only dreaded lest Gertrude’s high feelings would prevent her 
being dependant (as she would call it) even on a husband. The manceuvrings 
of Mrs. C. and Co. entertained him much ; and, after dinner, on the evening 
of the day that the “ blue lady” arrived, as the gentlemen entered the drawing- 
room, Mr. Barry and Mr. Wortley paused, and whispered to each other, the 
same words, “ How superior is she to all around her !” Certainly the contrast 
between Gertrude and Miss Spinner was very Judicrous ; — the real information 
of the one, and assumed learning of the other, reminded one of Florian’s beau- 
tiful fable, Le Rossignol et le Prince : 

“ Les sots savent tous se produire ; 

Le merite se cache, il faut l’aller trouver.” 

One was as presuming as the sparrows; the other as retiring as the 
nightingale. 

“Now, re-e-ly,” commenced the learned lady, “now, re-e-ly (she was ambi- 
tious of the English accent) I am so glad you are come ; gentlemen, I contest 
for woman’s talent, but I lowly bend to the magnificent intellect of the crea- 
tion’s lords — although it must be confessed, you are not ‘ melting as a lover’s 
prayer,’ as Hughes beautifully expresses it ; and though, sometimes, 4 ye are 
more changeable than Proteus,’ yet are ye 4 glorious as Mars,’ and 4 luminous 
as stars !’ There,” said the lady, making a low courtesy, 44 is rhyme and 
reason, which I consider the perfection of oratory !” 

Miss Livy and Miss Letty laughed ; Gertrude smiled, and the gentlemen 
could scarcely keep their countenances in proper form. Mr. Altern, the 
rattling fox-hunter, complimented the lady on her eloquence, which was, he 
said, 44 as good as a play ;” and seated himself by her side, to draw her out ; — 
there was little occasion for it, for when once a woman gets a taste for display, 
it is like the overflowing of the Nile, which no earthly barrier can withstand ; 
I fear me, however, it does not fertilize like that river. When the tea equipage 
was removed, Miss Spinner proposed, 44 that they should busy themselves in 
some intellectual exercise. I am sure,” she continued, 44 Miss Raymond, who 
has so long enjoyed the enlightening beams of London society, will second this 


364 


HOSPITALITY. 


motioii ; and, indeed, I wished particularly to ask her, if she ha(J seen any of 
the celebrated characters — the lions of the day ?” 

“ Yes, I have, I believe, seen many of them.” 

“ Oh, how I envy you ! Perhaps you attended the celebrated Dr. Towns- 
end’s lectures, on the use and abuse of the steam-engine; — of course you 
recollect Darwin’s beautiful lines : — 

‘ Fresh, through a thousand pipes, the wave distils, 

And thirsty cities drink the exuberant rills.’ ” 

Gertrude confessed she had not attended the lectures. 

“ What a pity ! I think I saw your daughters, Mrs. Croydon, in that 
sweet fellow’s botanical studio, at the Rotunda — I forget his name — Rose 
— Rosacynth ! — do you recollect his delightful, and exquisitely touching, 
description of the papilionaceous tribe ? — and his hortus siccus — so talented 
and classical!- — to poetize the loves of the flowers like Moore’s loves of 
the angels !” 

“ Oh, yes !” replied both young ladies, “ we all remember Mr. Rosacynth ; 
we attended his lectures, and all such things, before our education was finished. 
I suppose, Gertrude, you will make Lady B.’s daughters, your pupils, do so, 
when they are old enough?” 

“ Young ladies,” replied Mr. Barry, quietly, “ I believe Miss Raymond 
will soon devote her exclusive attention to one pupil — at least, I know one who 
would give — ” 

M Dear sir,” said poor Gertrude, springing up, “ do, do hold — peace, for 
pity’s sake !’” 

“ Bless me, what ’s the matter ?” inquired old Lady Florence ; the Croydons 
exchanged glances; Mr. Wortley stooped to look for his handkerchief, which 
was in his hand ; and Mr. Altern gave a long whew. The silence showed 
symptoms of continuance, which, nevertheless, the foxhunter at length broke. 
“ I hope you don’t patronise the three B’s that preside over conversazioni ?” 

“ What are they ?” laughed Mr. Barry. 

“ Blue stockings, blue milk, and blue looks.” 

“ Sir — Mr. Altern,” said Miss Spinner, indignantly, “ I am sorry for you ! 
You have no more taste for the beauties of literature — to think or speak so, be- 
comes a Goth, a Vandal or — a foxhunter !” 

“Whew! — dear madam, don’t plunge so; a joke’s a joke — though, ’faith, 
there ’s some truth in it. I was inveigled, once, to one of their conversazioni ; 
what a pucker they were in ! — worse than a pack of hounds in full cry, but not 
half the spirit or harmony, for they were all after different game : some shoot- 
ing, some coursing, some angling, some (old ones too) ogling — they seemed to 
me to neglect no sort of business, except eating ; and that was not their fault, 
for they had nothing to eat, save trumpery biscuits and half-starved sandwiches ; 
my Sly would swallow plates and all, in a moment — coffee and eau sucres, and 


HOSPITALITY. 


365 

such poison!— oh, what is it to a baron of beef and a foaming tankard, or a 
smoking jug of whiskey-punch V’ 

“ But, sir,” said Gertrude, kindly, for she saw Miss Spinner was annoyed, 
“ surely people do not assemble merely to eat and drink ; as intellectual beings, 
we ha vo higher objects in society, and ” 

“ I’ll tell you what,” said the honest, but unpolished ’squire, “you are much 
too pretty for one of the sisterhood.” 

“ Sir, I thank you,” and Miss Spinner arose and courtesied low — very low — 
to Mr. Altern. 

“ Miss Olivia,” said Mr. Wortley, eager to avert the coming storm, “ do, 
pray, favour us with that beautiful cavatina of Rossini’s — we all like music.” 

Miss Livy did not need a second request ; and for some time she was lis- 
tened to with much attention. At last, Miss Spinner became tired of silence, 

and, gliding up to Mr. Barry, said, “ that as Mr. (she forgot the name) 

had gone off that morning in search of Roman pavements, and broken vessels, 
pipes, and interesting relics of the olden time, and had not yet returned to 
illumine their orbit by his brilliant discoveries, she had a few little curiosities in 
her bureau, up stairs, that might afford amusement — she would bring them 
down while they were singing.” The lady soon imported various packages, 
boxes, and bags, placed them on the sofa, piled up on her right hand and on 
her left, and looked not unlike a venerable mummy encompassed by Egyptian 
relics. She exhibited her specimens of conchology; mineralogy; her little 
electrifying machine ; her figure from the inquisition at Goa ; a snuff-box that 
Buonaparte had — looked at ; a lock of hair, cut from the tail of Marie Antoi- 
nette’s favourite lap-dog; a bit of Pope’s willow ; a leaf of Shakspeare’s mul- 
berry tree ; a petrified toe of St. Peter, which was classically labelled — “Digit 
de Sancto Pietro!” — and many other equally valuable relics. The young people 
grouped around her, and she was unusually elaborate and eloquent in her de- 
scriptions ; nay, she even repeated an extemporaneous poem she had made upon 
herself on a misty morning. 

Gertrude and Mr. Wortley were standing near each other, when Miss Spin- 
ner pulled various old-fashioned boxes from a yellow silk bag. “ I purchased 
these very interesting relics of antiquity at a receptacle for old furniture — vulgo, 
a broker’s shop ; it is very obscure ; I fancy there is part of this strange-looking 
box unopened, it appears so thick and clumsy — perhaps the fastening is con- 
cealed by some spring; it has hitherto baffled my utmost ingenuity, and I 
hardly thought the man would sell it without examination.” 

“ I ought to know it,” said Gertrude ; “ it belonged, I am certain, to my dear 
old friend’s cabinet.” She took it, and touched a spring that was concealed 
by a small stud ; the bottom opened, and discovered, tightly pressed in, a folded 
parchment. 

Mr. Barry seized it, hastily unfastened the riband which tied it, and ex- 
claimed, “ Gracious Providence ! — the Will ! — the Will ! — the Will ! She was 
neither forgetful nor unjust. Mr. Wortley, I give you joy; — she’ll have you 


366 


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now, because she’ll be almost as rich as yourself; joy — joy! Oh, I’m so 
happy ! — quite right ! — ‘ all my personal and estated property too,’ — my dear 
Miss Spinner, you are the sweetest being on earth — ‘ to Gertrude Raymond ’ 
— just as it should be !” 

“Dear — dearest Gertrude!” exclaimed Mr. Wortley; but Gertrude had 
fainted on his shoulder; and salts, eau-de-luce, de Cologne, de Millefleurs, were 
abundantly supplied by the young ladies, who hardly understood the matter, 
but knew that all was in delightful bustle, or, as Miss Spinner said, “ soft confu- 
sion — rosy terror !” 

When Gertrude had recovered, and time was afforded for deliberate inves- 
tigation, Mr. Barry read the will aloud. Mrs. Dorrington had left her entire 
property to Miss Raymond, subject to some life annuities, either to old and faith- 
ful servants, or poor relatives. Amongst other paragraphs contained in it was 
the following : — “ And whereas, I have good and substantial reason for believing 
that Thomas Dorrington (who is, unfortunately, by the will of God, my nearest 
relative) is a double-dealing craven and a heartless man ; seeing that like the 
fabled Janus he carries two faces, I leave him to be provided for by Gertrude 
Raymond, convinced that she, of her generosity, will do more for him, in con- 
sideration of his family, than my love of justice would permit me, knowing his 
duplicity as I do ; — I leave him to her mercy.” 

“ It is singular,” observed Mr. Barry, “ that my old friend should so studiously 
have concealed all information on the subject of her will from us ; to execute 
it with her own hand, and never mention its existence. She was a good lawyer, 
however, for it is duly witnessed ; but where shall we find those people ? — this 
document has 'been nearly four years in existence. ‘Patrick Muller,’ the old 
butler, he is dead; ‘Frank Hayward,’ and ‘Jane Miller,’ have you any idea 
where they are, Gertrude ?” 

“ Frank Hayward married Jane immediately on our going to Bath, and my 
dear relative, you know, sir, never retained married servants ; but she procured 
them confidential situations in Sir Thomas Harrowby’s family. They have been 
ever since on the Continent ; I believe they are now at Rome.” 

“ How very fortunate,” said Miss Spinner, “ that I happened to purchase the 
box ! My dear Miss Raymond, I give you much joy.” 

“ Oh, so do we all !” said Mrs. Croydon ; somewhat awkwardly, however, for 
Mr. Wortley’s exclamation had convinced her that her daughters’ beauty and 
accomplishments had been displayed in vain ; and that, even when portionless, 
and a governess, Gertrude Raymond, notwithstanding her want of tact, ad- 
vanced age (twenty-two), and what Mrs. C. always termed “ very plain appear- 
ance,” had conquered, what she considered, “ a man worth looking after,” be- 
cause he had five thousand a year ! 

“ Gertrude,” said Lady Florence, who, by the assistance of her ear-trumpet, 
heard and understood all that had occurred — “my dear Gertrude, your old 
friend rejoices for you. Nearly a century has passed over this grey head, ana 


HOSPITALITY. 


36 ? 


ihose who number only half my days, must expeiience much of joy and sorrow , 
>et this is one of the happiest hours I have ever known. I sorrowed, bitterly 
sorrowed, when you, of ancient family, and mind capable of adding lustre to the 
highest rank, became a labourer for independence. Yet, Gertrude, I loved you 
more and more ; for even the pittance you worked for, you divided with the 
poor and the afflicted. Nay, child, I will speak ; I do not often praise ; but you 
deserve more than I can give. Never did you utter unkindness towards those 
who had dashed your cup of happiness to the earth, even as it had touched 
your lips. Never did you suffer the breath of slander to dim her memory, from 
whom you had a right to expect so much ; for you were unto her as a dear and 
tender child. I know the heart has ties stronger than those of kindred, but you 
had claims from both these sources.” 

“ My dear Lady Florence,” interrupted Gertrude, much affected, “you over- 
rate — I knew my friend too well to imagine, even, that she would forget me ; I 
should have been base if I could for a moment have believed it !” 

“ Your trials are now passed,” resumed the old lady ; “ the wind of adver- 
sity separates the chaff from the wheat. You have learned to value the world’s 
friendship. And when I remember the virtues that characterised your amiable 
and excellent parents, the words of this holy book press upon my memory — ‘ I 
have been young, and now am old, yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor 
his seed begging their bread.’ ” 

“ Hang me !” said Mr. Altern, after a pause, “ but it ’s worth riding a steeple- 
chase to come in for all this.” 

“ It would make a delightful tale, if well wrought up,” interrupted Miss Spin- 
ner, “quite good enough for — perhaps not for Blackwood, but for something 
else, particularly if it ends, as I presume, with a — a — spare my blushes !” 

A sunny Sabbath morning succeeded this happy denouement , and the find- 
ing of the will was noised all over the parish. The most busy agent on this 
occasion was nurse Keefe, who went to first mass, expressly for the purpose 
of telling how “ my young lady will have her right, and the bad breed ’ll be 
forced to fly the country ; and more will be happy than me — the fine English 
gintleman, that many was afther, the silly crathurs ! as if it would be any good 
for them to put themselves equal with my young lady, with the raale gintleman 
who had sich beautiful estates, and sich a power of money, and a raale castle, 
built on a gould mine (as I hard tell) ; and whin he wants, he has nothin’ to do, 
but say to one of of his men, ‘ James, go down and bring me up a bucket of 
gould ;’ and to another, ‘ Charles, my boy, go down and bring me up a bucket 
of silver.’ ” 

The peasantry, who most cordially hated “ the new man,” rejoiced very 
sincerely at the intelligence. “ Thos. Dorrington, Esq.” was neither fitted by 
nature nor education to occupy the station in society to which his wealth had 
raised him. He was what the poor termed “ a hard man — let the land to the 
highest bidder, without any regard to the oldest tenant ; and distrained for rent 


368 


HOSPITALITY. 


whenever it was not paid to the hour. Such a person was not likely to obtain 
popularity; and his low habits effectually prevented his associating with the 
gentry on equal terms. 

“ Well, bad as he is, Mistress Keefe,” said Paddy Magin, “ he didn’t spirit 
away the Will, which for sartin I thought he did, for he always had the look of 
a dirty turn.” 

“Well, I set it down to that too, Paddy; and it’s well for him he didn’t. 
I ’ll stop myself, after grate mass, jist to see my young lady go to church, and 
pass the mock people on the road.” 

“ Success to ye for ever, Mistress honey ! — and I ’ll gather the boys, and 
we ’ll have a shout for the young lady, and a groan for the by-gones, that ’ll 
shiver the mountains in no time ; — it ’s a pity it ’s Sunday, or we ’d have a 
bonfire.” 

“ Ay, Paddy, we ’ll have that same whin she ’s set up safe and sound in her 
own house ; I don’t think they ’ll have the face to dispute the will.” 

Paddy did “ gather the boys,” and a glorious shout and a deafening groan 
they gave. 

“ Thos. Dorrington, Esquire,” affected at first to disbelieve the existence of 
the will ; but he secretly procured what money he could from the tenants, and, 
deserting his unfortunate wife, whom he had long treated with brutal indiffer- 
ence, fled to America, and left them to the mercy of one who loved mercy. 
The reader will easily imagine that every difficulty in the way of a — a — the event 
at the allusion to which Miss Spinner blushed, was, by this fortunate circum- 
stance removed ; that the good Gertrude had now no scruples to overcome ; and 
that no barrier existed to the completion of the perfect happiness, to which she 
was so fully and so justly entitled : — 

“ Heaven doth with us as we with torches do ; 

Not light them for ourselves ; for if her virtues 
Had not gone forth of her, ’t were all alike 
As if she had them not.” 

Barrytown never was so full of company as about three months after Miss 
Spinner’s box had been found to contain so valuable a parchment; “shake- 
downs” in every room ; open house, sheep and oxen roasted whole, barrels of 
ale and whiskey, fiddlers and pipers; Lady Brilliant and suite; nurse Keefe, 
deputy mistress of kitchen ceremonies ; Miss Spinner, in a white satin hat, 
looped up with roses a la pastorelle, and a real new wig ; Mrs. Croydon and 
her daughters (poor spite !) “ so particularly engaged that they could not do 
themselves the honour from which they expected so much happiness — but 
wished the . bride and bridegroom more than a thousand blessings.” Barry- 
town was always noted for its hospitality ; for the poor, as well as the rich, 
sheltered under its roof, and the generous master afforded relief to all who 
really wanted it. But when Gertrude Raymond was married to Alfred 
Wortley, everybody wondered where, even in Barrytown, such crowds could 


HOSPITALITY. 


369 


have been packed. Lady Florence Barry, who had not been outside her own 
avenue gate for twenty years, accompanied the bride ; and Mr. Barry gave 
her away. More people could not have been at a priest’s funeral than assem- 
bled on this memorable occasion — 

“ When the wrong was made right, 

And the dark light,” 

as Miss Spinner quoted it ; and the “ might and right” were exemplified for 
many years by the inhabitants of Barrytown and Mount Gertrude (as Lady 
Florence called Mrs. Dorrington’s old residence). 

“ Hospitality, 

No formality,” 

became the motto of both houses, which were conducted on the same plan, 
except, indeed, that the great hall at Wortley-mount was garnished with merry, 
laughing children, instead of dogs, eagles, cats, and ravens. 




GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 



HEN I wrote the stories of which this volume is 
composed, in common with every other writer con- 
cerning Ireland, I had frequent occasion to notice 
the habitual intemperance of a people naturally ex- 
citable. This, more than all their other failings, 
rendered them liable to misrepresentation : — “ an 
Irishman drunk, and an Irishman sober,” were two 
distinct beings ; but the stranger had little time to 
inquire into the causes, when he witnessed the 
effects. And though many efforts had been made 
to change the bad spirit for the good — though Pro- 
fessor Edgar, in Belfast, the Rev. George Carr, 
in New Ross, and some excellent men in Cork, 
had made strenuous exertions to establish Tem- 
perance Societies, nothing, comparatively, had been 
done to influence the Roman Catholic population. 
What the Rev. Mr. Mathew has wrought — his untiring perseverance, his dis- 
interested efforts for the regeneration of his countrymen, his labouring unceas- 

( 370 ) 

. -V * • 





GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


371 

mgly through evil report, which was at last silenced by the overwhelming 
good that became apparent throughout the country — I need not here record. 
During the last two years the difficulty has been, not to find an Irishman sober, 
but an Irishman intoxicated ; the change is wonderful, and must be seen to be 
believed. I trust the good may be permanent, and see every reason to think 
that such will be the case. A person who had not visited Ireland for some 
years, would not know the country again ; indeed, I hardly knew the people* 
myself, some of whom I used to lecture after my own fashion ; and you may 
lecture Paddy for ever, without running the risk of an unpleasant answer ; he is 
the most ready of all people in the world to listen to advice — he will agree to 
the letter with you, in everything you state. “ Bedad, ma’am, I know that — I 
often thought so.” — “Ah, then, see that now! — Sure it was always the way, 
and a cruel bad habit, leaving us worse than it found us, and that ’s no asy 
matter.” — “ Oh, indeed, it ’s as clear as print, and as thrue as gospel !” but 
you did not carry your point a bit the sooner for all this acquiescence : the 
next day, the next hour, you might have chanced to meet the same Paddy 
in the most senseless state of intoxication. Alas ! it was very, very sad ! How 
different now ! Paddy’s coat — though not according to English notions of com- 
fort — is a wonderful improvement upon my old acquaintance ; his eye is clear ; 
the yellow pallor of inebriety has given place to the colour of a healthy state 
of existence ; and his step is firm, as of a man newly escaped from slavery. I 
have heard many, not conversant with the country, wonder that, in conse- 
quence of the spread of temperance, the children are not now all well cldthed, 
and the cabins furnished. They ought to remember, that the pay of an Irish 
labourer, at most , is but six shillings a week ; that what he drank formerly 
took the absolute food, the potato and milk, from his children, who now are 
able to have sufficient of this humble fare; but a much longer period must 
elapse before the little that can be spared shows to the eye accustomed to the 
luxuries of a higher station : — a cup and saucer, a plate, a piggin, a new stool, 
a potato-basket — are valuable additions to the humble cottage, yet are hardly 
noticed by the casual visitor, who sees the misery that is, but forgets that which 
has been. It is not a little curious to observe, how opinions alter with the times. 

I remember when it was considered a positive extravagance in the wife of even 
a decent tradesman to take a cup of tea ; though the gentry, who condemned 
her, would not hesitate to order her husband a glass of raw alcohol, when he 
brought home his work. Indeed, the habit of giving the evil spirit to every 
person who called on business, was, when I was a child, so common, that 
neglecting to do so was considered a breach of hospitality. 

There was a very excellent person in Bannow — a woman whom I never 
think of but with pleasure ; my grandmother used to employ her in her capacity 
of dress-maker and needlewoman, for, I should think, pretty nearly six months 
out of the twelve. She plied her needle in my nursery; and I have sat for 
hours on my little chair, by her side, looking into her beautiful face, and listen- 
ing, with intense pleasure, to the legends she used to tell, and the exquisite 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


372 

ballads she used to sing, with the most untiring patience, for my amusement. 
Poor Mrs. Bow ! She little thought how she was storing my mind with the 
richest treasures. She had been nearly brought up at Graige House, and 
nothing could surpass her affection for all who dwelt within its walls. Her 
manners and mind were superior to her station ; and yet, strangely enough, she 
had married a man — a smith — a good and clever workman, as remarkable for 
^personal ugliness, as she was for personal beauty ; and in proportion as her 
temper was sweet, his was sour. But this was not all ; Mr. Bow had a most 
decided affection for whiskey, raw — or whiskey-punch — it was never “ too hot 
nor too heavy” for him ; and if his temper was cranky when sober, it was 
worse than cranky when, after his hard day’s work, he issued from his forge a 
tipsy Vulcan, overthrowing, in his homeward progress, all who stood in his 
way. This was a heavy trial to his poor wife, who, in proportion as she was 
proud of her husband’s uprightness and integrity, so was she grieved at his fits 
of intoxication. “ If,” she would exclaim — “ if he would only take to the tea, 
I ’d die happy.” Now Mrs. Bow had a dog, a very pretty black spaniel, called 
Diver — a creature of extraordinary sagacity, and one of the first, as well as 
firmest advocates of Temperance : he might, had he lived long enough, been 
the favourite dog of Father Mathew, and been worthy of such a distinction. 
Diver hated “ the bad spirit,” as his mistress always called whiskey, with his 
entire heart. He would never accept a caress from a hand that had the odour 
thereof ; and the sound of drunken revelry excited him to the bristling of hair, 
and gnashing of teeth. When his master returned home in the full possession of 
his senses, Diver would manifest the greatest joy ; but when he staggered into the 
room, Diver would retreat under a chair, gather his lips from off his white and 
glistening teeth, and look both distressed and angry. His master was perfectly 
aware of this, and did not fail to bestow on his wife’s favourite, sundry epithets 
of dislike and contempt. Now this antipathy to the smell of whiskey could, per- 
haps, be accounted for ; the dog had, probably, been ill-used by persons under 
the influence of intoxication ; but the remarkable part of his canine character 
was — his attachment to the teapot. Although every one declared “ it was a 
shame for Mrs. Bow to take to the tea every evening, like a lady, and her 
husband, honest man, content with nothing but a glass of whiskey still, she 
persevered in the almost hopeless hope of winning her spouse to partake of the 
exhilarating, yet harmless, beverage ; in this desire Diver apparently con- 
curred. His mistress had only to show him the teapot to set him bounding and 
skipping about the room with delight ; he would whirl round, wag his tail, and 
finally dart forward in search of his master, whom he would endeavour, by 
every possible means in his power, to induce to return with him. The smith 
well knew what he wanted; and, at last, took pleasure in displaying his sagacity 
to his neighbours, making them accompany him home, because then, indeed, the 
animal’s joy knew no bounds. To see his master and mistress seated at the 
tea-table, was the summit of his delight ; he would stretch himself along the 
ground and howl with pleasure. Poor Diver did not live long enough to 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


373 

witness the triumph of. “ teatotalism but he succeeded in making his master 
fond of tea. I hope this anecdote of the first “ teatotallers” of my acquaintance, 
will not be considered “ out of place.” Happily, those who sneered at the im- 
possibility of Irishmen becoming sober members of society, are convinced that 
Irish perseverance is worthy of respect, not ridicule. The marvel to me is, not 
that some few have broken “ the pledge,” but that so many have kept it. It 
must be remembered, that it was the Irishman’s sole luxury. 

“ Surely it is my father and mother, 

My Sunday coat — I have no other 

was the “ refrain” of one of the many songs he had heard from his youth up. 
“ His father liked a drop, honest man, and took it off and on, and sure if it 
did harm, it was to no one but himself,” was what he had often heard. His 
uncles were fine, free-hearted fellows, that “ shared a drop with their neigh- 
bours.” His cousins “ took their glass like men.” “ The piper never played up 
hearty till he had his eye glazed with the whiskey.” “ The priest was a fine man, 
entirely, after his riverence had the second tumbler.” His landlord, the next 
object of his veneration, “ was fond of his hot tumbler, and always a good hand 
to order it to a poor man, wet or dry.” No entertainment was given with- 
out whiskey ; no bargain concluded until the libation to the evil spirit was poured 
forth : no account was ever taken of the horrors produced by intoxication. 
“ Ah, sure, he couldn’t help it — he wasn’t himself when he struck the blow 
— bad luck to it for whiskey, it does a deal of harm ; but what can a poor man 
do? — sure it’s the only comfort he has — the only thing that puts the throuble 
past him ; it takes the feel of sorrow from his heart, and the sight of starvation 
from before his eyes.” 

And yet — the Irishman has had the moral courage to relinquish, and the 
moral firmness to adhere to the determination of giving up, as I have said, his 
only luxury — and that, without any of the complaining we, of a better class, 
should make if we abandoned one of the scores that we indulge in. 

I look upon this triumph with great admiration. It is impossible not to 
respect those who make great sacrifices from a desire to do right ; and I am 
sure what has been effected, in the way of self-denial, by the Irish, in this 
matter, proves that they have not only energy, but perseverance, for anything 
they undertake. This fact should be borne in mind by all whose duty and in- 
terest it is, to see that such fine qualities are well directed. 

I must illustrate my text of “ Good Spirits and Bad,” by one or two 
stories : — 

“ What I ’m thinking of, Nelly, darlin’,” — said Roney Maher to his poor pale 
wife — “ what I ’m thinking of, is — what a pity we were not bred and born in 
this Temperance Society, for then we could follow it, you know, as a thing of 
course, without any trouble !” 


374 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


“ But — ” 

« Whisht, Nelly, you’ve one great fault, avourneen — you’re always talking 
dear, and won’t listen to me. What I was saying is t that if we were brought 
up to the coffee, instead of the whiskey, we’d have been natural members of the 
Temperance Society; as it is now, agrah ! why it’s meat, drink, and clothing, 
as a man may say !” 

He paused, and Nelly thought — though, in his present state, she had 
too much tenderness to tell her husband so — that whiskey was a very bad 
paymaster. 

“ You’ re no judge, Ellen,” he continued, interpreting her thoughts, “ for you . 
never took to it ; and, if I had my time to begin over again, I never would 
either ; but it ’s too late to change now — all — too late !” 

“ I ’ve heard many a wise man say, that it ’ s never too late to mend,” ob- 
served Ellen. 

“Yah!” he exclaimed, almost fiercely, — “who ever said that was a 
fool ! ” 

“It was the priest himself, then, Roney, never a one else; and sure you 
wouldn’t call him that!” 

“ If I did mend,” he observed, “ no one would take my word for it.” 

“ Ay, dear — but deeds, not words ;” and, having said more than was usual for 
her, in the way of reproof, Ellen retreated to watch its effect. 

Roney Maher was a fine, likely boy, when he married Ellen ; but when this 
little dialogue took place, he was sitting over the embers of a turf fire, a pale, 
emaciated man, though in the prime of life — a torn handkerchief bound round 
his temples, and his favourite shillalah, that he had greased and seasoned in 
the chimney, and tended, with more care than his children, lay broken by his 
side. He attempted to snatch it up while his wife retreated, but his arm fell 
powerless, and he uttered a groan so full of pain, that, in a moment, she re- 
turned, and, with tearful eyes, inquired “ if it was so bad with him entirely 
as that?” 

“ It ’s worse,” he answered, while the large drops that stood upon his brow, 
proved how much he suffered. 

“It’s worse — the arm I mean — than I thought; I’m done for a week, or, 
may-be, a fortnight — and, Nelly, the pain of my arm is nothing to the weight 
about my heart — now, don’t be talking, for I can’t stand it. If I can 9 t work 
next week nor this, and we without money or credit — what — what — ” The 
unfortunate man glanced at his wife and children — he could not finish the 
sentence. He had only returned, the previous night, from having “ been out 
upon a spree,” as it is called ; spending his money, wasting his health, losing 
his employment — not thinking of those innocent children whom God had given 
him to protect; and only returning to the abode which his propensity had 
rendered one of squalid wretchedness, because he had been disabled in a dis- 
graceful riot. 

When sober, Roney’s impulses were all good ; but he was as easily, perhaps 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


375 

more easily, led away by the bad than the good ; in the present instance, he 
continued talking, because he dared not think, and it is a fearful thing for a man 
to dread his own thoughts. It was a painful picture, to look upon this well- 
educated man— he had been an excellent tradesman — he had been respected — 
he had been comfortable ; he felt lost, degraded, in pain, in sorrow, and yet 
he would not confess it. Once or twice he attempted to sing snatches of those 
foolish or bad songs, which entice to intoxication, but the words “ stuck in his 
throat in truth, he was too ill, either to think or act, — ashamed of the past, 
yet endeavouring, in vain, to convince himself, that he had no right to be 
ashamed. 

It was evening ; the children crept round the fire, where their mother 
endeavoured to heat half-a-dozen cold potatoes for their supper — looking, with 
hungry eyes, upon the scanty feast. “ Daddy ’s too bad entirely to eat to- 
night,” whispered the second boy to his eldest brother, while his little thin blue 
lips trembled, half with cold, half with hunger ; “ and so we ’ll have his share 
as well as our own!” and the little shivering group devoured the potatoes, 
in imagination, over and over again — poking them with their lean fingers, 
and telling their “mammy” they were hot enough; — shocking that want 
should have taught them to calculate on their parent’s illness as a source of 
rejoicing !” 

“ Nelly,” said her husband, at last — “ Nelly, I wish I had a drop of something 
to warm me.” 

“ Mrs. Kinsalla said she would give me a bowl of strong coffee for you — 
if you would take it.” 

What drunkard does not blaspheme 1 

Roney swore ; and, though his lips were parched with fever, and his head 
throbbed, declared he must have just “ one little thimble-full to raise his heart.” 
It was in vain that Ellen remonstrated and entreated. He did not attempt 
violence, but he obliged his eldest boy to beg the “ thimble-full ;” and before 
morning, the wretched man was tossing about in all the heat and irritation 
of decided fever. One must have witnessed what fever is when accompanied 
by such misery, to understand its terrors. It was wonderful how he was sup- 
ported through it — indeed, his ravings, when, after a long, dreary time, the 
fever subsided, were more torturing to poor Nelly, than the working of his 
delirium had been. 

“ If,” he would exclaim — “ if it wasn’t too late , I ’d take the pledge they talk 
about, the first minute I rise my head from the straw ; but where ’s the good 
of it now ?• — what can I save now ? — nothing — it ’s too late !” 

“ It ’s never too late,” Ellen would whisper. “ It ’s never too late,” she 
would repeat; and, as if it were a mocking .echo, her husband’s voice would 
sigh — “ Too late ! — too late !” 

Indeed, any who looked upon the fearful wreck of what had been the fine, 
manly form of Roney Maher — stretched upon a bed of straw, with hardly any 
covering — saw his two rooms, now utterly destitute of every article of furniture 


376 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


— heard his children begging in the streets for a morsel of food — and observed 
how the utmost industry of his poor wife could hardly keep the rags together 
that shrouded her bent form — any one almost, who saw these things, would be 
inclined to repeat the words, which have, unfortunately, but too often knelled 
over the grave of good feelings and good intentions — “ Too late ! — too late !” 
Many would have imagined that not only had the demon habit, which had 
gained so frightful an ascendancy over poor Roney, banished all chance of 
reformation, but that there was no escape from such intense poverty. I wish, 
with all my heart, that such persons would, instead of sitting down with so 
helpless and dangerous a companion as despair, resolve upon two things : first 
of all, to trust in and pray to God ; secondly, to combat what they foolishly call 
fate — to fight bravely, and in a good cause ; and sure am I, that those who do, 
will, sooner or later, achieve a victory ! 

It is never too late to abandon a bad habit, and adopt a good one. In every 
town of Ireland, Temperance has now its members, and these members are so 
thoroughly acquainted with the blessings of this admirable system, from feeling 
its advantages, that they are full of zeal in the cause, and, with true Irish 
generosity, eager to enlist their friends and neighbours — that they, too, may 
partake of the comforts which spring from Temperance. The Irishman is not 
selfish ; he is as ready to share his cup of coffee, as he used to be to share his 
glass of whiskey. 

One of these generous members was the Mrs. Kinsalla, whose offer of the bowl 
of coffee had been rejected by Roney the night his fever commenced : she was 
herself a poor widow, or, according to the touching and expressive phraseology 
of Ireland, “ a lone, woman and, though she had so little to bestow, that many 
would call it nothing, she gave it with that good will which rendered it 
“ twice blest then she stirred up others to give ; and often had she kept 
watch with her wretched neighbour — Ellen, never omitting those words of 
gentle kindness and instruction, which, perhaps, at the time, may seem to have 
been spoken in vain; but not so: for we must bear in mind that, even in the 
good ground, the seed will not spring the moment it is sown. Those who 
would effect a great moral revolution, must have patience : those who, in their 
families, seek to reform a beloved object whom they love, despite his or her 
errors ; or to reclaim a backslider, and teach that the ways of peace are the 
ways of loving-kindness and religion, must have patience ; they must be assured 
that it is never too late , as all do think, whose trust in God is founded in the 
belief of His mercy and forgiveness. 

Roney had been an industrious, and a good workman, once ; and Mrs. Kin- 
salla had often thought, before the establishment of the Temperance Society, 
what a blessing it would be, if there were any means of making him an “ affi- 
davit man but, as she said, “ there were so many ways of avoiding an oath, 
when a man’s heart was set to break it, not to keep it, that she could hardly 
tell what to say about it.” 

Such poverty as Roney’s must either die beneath its infliction, or ri?e above 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


i i 

t. He was now able to sit in the sun at his cabin-door. His neighbour, Mrs. 
Kinsalla, had prevailed on a good lady to employ Ellen in the place of a ser- 
vant who was ill ; and had lent her clothes, that she might be able to appear 
decently “ at the big house.” Every night she was permitted to bring her 
husband a little broth, or some bread and meat; and the poor fellow was 
regaining his health, though his arms still continued weak. Their dwelling, 
however, remained without any article of furniture ; although the rain used to 
pour through the roof, and the only fire was made from the scanty “ bres- 
naugh” the children gathered from the road-side, they had sufficient food ; and, 
though the lady expected all she employed to work hard, she paid them well, 
and caused Ellen’s poor forlorn heart to leap with joy by the gift of a blanket, 
and a very old suit of clothes for her husband. And here let me observe that, 
wherever man and wife continue to exist together, there is hope, amounting 
almost to a certainty, of better times, if one stems the torrent of vice or mis- 
management. If both go wrong, woe, woe, to their children ! — but how often 
is the husband rendered, as it were, the salvation of the wife, and the wife of 
the husband ! 

“ I have seen yer old master to-day, Roney,” said the widow Kinsalla to her 
neighbour, “ and he was asking after you.” 

“ I ’m obliged to him,” was the reply. 

“And he said he was sorry to see your children in the street, Roney, 
honey.” 

“ So am I but you know he was so angry with me for that last 

scrimage , that he declared I should never do another stroke of work for him 
and, he added, “ that was a cruel saying for him to lay out starvation for me 
and mine, because I was not worse than the rest ; sure, as I said to Nelly, poor 
thing, and she spending her strength, and striving for me — ‘Nelly,’ says I, 
‘ where ’s the good of it, bringing me out of the shades of death, to send me 
begging along the road ? — let me die easy where I am !’ ” 

“ Well, but the master will take you back, Roney — on one condition.” 

The blood mounted to the poor man’s face — and then he became faint, and 
leaned back against the wall. Three times he had been dismissed from his 
employment for drunkenness, and his master had never been known to receive 
a man back after three dismissals. Mrs. Kinsalla gave him a cup of water, and 
then continued — “ The master told me, himself, he ’d take you back, Roney, on 
one condition .” 

“ I ’ll give my oath against the whiskey — barring — ” he began. 

“ There need be no swearing, but there must be no barring. I ’!J tell you 
the rights of it— if you’ll listen to me in earnest,” said the widow. “ The mas- 
ter, you see, called all his men together, and set down fair before them, the 
state they were in from the indulgence in spirits. He drew a picture, Roney ; 
a young man in his prime, full of life, with a fair character ; his young wife by 
his side ; his child on his knee ; earning from fifteen to eighteen shillings or a 
pound a week; able to have his Sunday dinner in comfort; well to do, in 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


378 

every way ; at first he drinks, may-be, a glass with a friend — and that leads to 
another , and another, until work is neglected, home is abandoned, a quarrelsome 
spirit grows out of the high spirit which is no shame — and, in a very short time, 
you lose all trace of the man in the degraded drunkard. Poverty wraps her 
rags around him ; pallid want, loathsome disease, a jail, and a bedless death, 
close the scene. ‘ But,’ said the master, ‘ this is not all ; the sneer and the 
reproach have gone over the world against us, and an Irishman is held up as a 
degraded man — as a half-civilized savage, to be spurned, and laughed at — 
because 

“ I knew,” groaned Roney — “ because he makes himself a reproach. Mrs. 
Kinsalla, I knew you were a well-reared and a well-learned woman, but you 
give that to the life ; it ’s all true.” 

“ He spoke,” she continued, “ of those amongst his own workmen, who had 
fallen by intoxication ; he said, if poverty had slain its thousands, whiskey had 
slain its tens of thousands ; poverty did not always lead to drunkenness, but 
drunkenness always led to poverty; he spoke of you, my poor man, as bein^ 
one whom he had respected.” 

“ Did he say that, indeed I” 

“ He did — ” 

“ God bless him for that , any way. I thought him a hard man ; but God 
bless him for remembering old times.” 

“ And then he said how you had fallen — ” 

“ The world knows that , without his telling it,” interrupted Roney. 

“ It does, agra ! — but listen ! He told of one who was as low as you are 
now, and lower, for the Lord took from him the young wife, who died, broken- 
hearted, in the sight of his eyes ; and yet it was not too late for him to be 
restored, and able to lead others from the way that led him to destruction. 

“ He touched the hearts of them all ; he laid before them, how, if they looked 
back to what they had done when sober to what they had done when the con- 
trary, they would see the difference; and then, my dear, he showed them other 
things ; he laid it down as plain as print, how all the badness that has been 
done in the country, sprang out of the whiskey — the faction-fights, flying in the 
face of that God who tells us to love each other — the oaths, black and bitter, 
dividing Irishmen, who ought to be united in all things that lead to the peace 
and honour of their country, into parties, staining hands with blood, that would 
have gone, spotless, to honourable graves, but for its excitement. 

“ Then he said how the foes of Ireland would sneer and scorn, if she became 
a backslider from Temperance ; and how her friends would rejoice, if the people 
kept true to their pledge ; — how every man could prove himself a patriot, a rale 
patriot, by showing to the world an Irishman, steadfast, sober, and industrious, 
with a cooler head, and warmer heart than ever beat in any but an Irishman’s 
bosom ! — He showed, you see, how Temperance was the heart's core of mid Ire- 
land's glory , and said a deal more than I can repeat about her peace, and 
verdure, and prosperity; and then he drew out a picture of a reformed man — 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


379 

ms home with all the little bits of things comfortable about him ; his smiling 
wife — his innocent babies ; and, knowing him so well, Roney, I made my cour- 
tesy — and, ‘ sir,’ says I, ‘ if you please, will that come about to every one who 
becomes a true member of the Total Abstinence Society ?’ ‘ I ’ll go bail for it,’ 

says he, ‘ though surely you don’t want it ; I never saw you overtaken, Mrs. 
Kinsalla.’ * God forbid, and thank your honour,’ says I ; * but you w r ant every 
one to be a member'?’ says I. ‘From my heart, for his own good, and the 
honour of old Ireland, I do,’ he says. 

“ ‘ Then, sir,’ I went on, ‘ there ’s Roney Maher, sir — and if he takes and is 
true to the pledge, sir — ’ and I watched to see if the good-humoured twist was 
on his mouth, ‘ he ’ll be fit for work next week, sir; and the evil spirit is out of 
him so long now, and — ’ ‘ That’s enough,’ he says, * bring him here to-morrow, 

when all who wish to remain in my employ will take the resolution, and I ’ll try 
him again.’ ” 

Ellen had entered, unperceived by her husband, and flung herself on her 
knees by his side. 

The appeal was unnecessary ; sorrow softens men’s hearts ; he pressed her 
to his bosom, while tears coursed each other down the furrows of his pallid 
cheeks. 

“ Ellen, mavourneen ! — Ellen, aroon !” he whispered — “ Nelly, agra ! a coushla 
machree ! — you were right — ‘ It is never too late.' ” 

* #**##**## 

Nineteen months have elapsed since Roney, trusting not in his own strength, 
entered on a new course of life. Having learned to distrust himself, he was 
certain to triumph. 

You could hardly believe that the Roney Maher of the past and the Roney 
Maher of the present are the same ; the pale, shivering, sullen, and red-eyed 
drunkard changed by the blessing — the one blessing which every human being 
can make his own — the blessing of Temperance ; changed — I repeat it most 
joyfully — into a hale and happy, open and clear-eyed man ; his voice steady ; 
his step firm ; working from Monday morning until Saturday night ; the source 
of humble, but certain, comfort to his family ; standing before God, and his 
country, in the dignity of manhood, undebased by vice. 

It is Sunday ; his wife has taken her two eldest children to early mass, that 
she may return in time to prepare his dinner; the little lads, stout, clean, and 
ruddy-faced, are watching to call to their mother, so that she may know the 
moment he, her reformed husband, appears in sight. What there is in the cot- 
tage betokens care, and that sort of Irish comfort which is easily satisfied ; 
there is, moreover, a cloth on the table ; a cunning-looking dog is eyeing the 
steam of something more savoury than mere potatoes, which ascends the chim- 
ney ; and the assured calmness of Ellen’s face proves that her heart is at ease. 
The boys are the same that, hardly two years ago, were compelled, by cruel 
starvation, to exult — poor children! that their father’s being too ill to eat, 
insured them another potato. 


380 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


“ Hurroo, mammy — there ’s daddy !” exclaimed the eldest. 

“ Oh ! mammy, his new beaver shines grand in the sun !” shouts his brother ; 
“ and there ’s widdy Kinsalla along with him, but he ’s carrying little Nancy ; 
now he lets her down, and the darling is running, for he ’s taken off her Sunday 
shoes to ease her dawshy feet ; and oh ! mammy, honey, there ’s the mastei 
himself shaking hands with father before the people !” This triumphant an- 
nouncement brought Ellen to the door ; she shaded her eyes from the sun with 
her hand, and, having seen what made her heart beat very rapidly in her faith- 
ful and gentle bosom, she wiped them, more than once, with the corner of her 
apron. “ What ails ye, mammy, honey ? — sure there ’s no trouble over you 
now !” said the eldest boy, climbing to her neck, and pouting his lips, not blue, 
but cherry-red, to meet his mother’s kiss. 

“ I hope daddy will be very hungry,” he continued, “ and Mrs. Kinsalla, for 
even if the schoolmaster came in, we ’ve enough dinner for them all.” 

“ Say — thank God, my child,” said Ellen. “ Thank God,” repeated the boy. 
“ And shall I say what you do be always saying as well V 9 “ What ’s that, 
alanna ?” “ Thank God and the Temperance ! — ah ! and something else.” 

“What V 9 inquired his mother. “ What ? — why, that it's never too late” 

The friends of Temperance have so great a dread of the people taking what 
are called “Temperance Cordials,” that I am induced to illustrate the subject 
by relating an incident — in the humble but fervent hope of its being useful in 
preventing persons from laying down one bad habit, only to take up another. 

“Well,” said Andrew Furlong to James Lacey, “that ginger cordial, of all 
things I ever tasted, is the nicest and warmest. It’s beautiful stuff ; and so 
cheap.” 

“ What good does it do ye, Andrew ? and what want have you of it ?” in- 
quired James Lacey. 

“ What good does it do me ?” repeated Andrew, rubbing his forehead, in a 
manner that showed he was perplexed by the question, “ why, no great good, to 
be sure, and I can’t say Fve any want of it ; for, since I became a member of 
the ‘ Total Abstinence Society,’ I’ve lost the megrim in my head, and the weak- 
ness I used to have about my heart. I’m as strong and hearty in myself as 
any one can be, God be praised ! And sure, James, neither of us could turn 
out in such a coat as this , this time twelvemonth.” 

“ And that’s true,” replied James ; “ but we must remember that if leaving 
off whiskey enables us to show a good habit, taking to ‘ginger cordial,’ or any 
thing of that kind, will soon wear a hole in it.” 

“ You are always fond of your fun. How can you prove that ?” 

“Easy enough,” said James. ‘“Intoxication was the worst part of a 
whiskey-drinking habit; but it was not the only bad part — it spent time, and it 
spent what well-managed time always gives, money. Now though they do say 
— mind, I’m not quite sure about it, for they may put things in it they don’t own 
to, and your eyes look brighter, and your cheek more flushed, than if you had 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


381 

been drinking nothing stronger than milk or water — but they do say that ginger 
cordials, and all kinds of cordials, do not intoxicate. I will grant this ; but you 
cannot deny that they waste both time and money.” 

“ Oh, bother !” exclaimed Andrew, “I only went with two or three other 
boys to 'have a glass, and I don’t think we spent more than half an hour. 
There ’s no great harm in laying out a penny or two-pence that way, now and 
again ” 

“ Half an hour even, breaks a day,” said James, “ and, what is worse, it 
unsettles the mind for work ; and we ought to be very careful of any return to 
the old habit , that has destroyed many of us, body and soul, and made the name 
of an Irishman a by-word and a reproach, instead of a glory and an honour. 
A penny, Andrew, breaks the silver shilling into coppers ; and two-pence will 
buy half a stone of potatoes — that ’s a consideration. If we don’t manage to 
keep things comfortable at home, the women won’t have the heart to mend the 
coat. Not,” added James, with a sly smile, “ that I can deny having taken to 
Temperance Cordials myself.” 

“You!” shouted Andrew, “you! a pretty fellow you are to be blaming me, 
and forced to confess you have taken to them yourself ; but I suppose they ’ll 
wear no hole in your coat? Oh, no, you are such a good manager !” 

“ Indeed,” answered James, “ I was anything but a good manager, eighteen 
months ago : as you well know, I was in rags, never at my work of a Monday, 
and seldom on a Tuesday. My poor wife, my gentle, patient Mary, often bore 
hard words, and, though she will not own it, I fear still harder blows, when I 
had driven away my senses. My children were pale, half-starved, naked crea- 
tures, disputing a potato with the pig my wife tried to keej) f to pay the rent, 
well knowing I would never do it. Now ” 

“But the cordial, my boy!” interrupted Andrew, “the cordial! — sure I 
believe every word of what you ’ve been telling me is as true as gospel ; ain’t 
there hundreds, ay, thousands, at this moment, on Ireland’s blessed ground, that 
can tell the same story ? But the cordial ! — and to think of your never owning 
it before : is it ginger, or aniseed, or peppermint ?” 

“ None of these — and yet it’s the rale thing, my boy.” 

“ Well, then,” persisted Andrew, “ let ’s have a drop of it ; you ’re not going, 
I ’m sure, to drink by yourself — and as I’ve broke the afternoon ” 

A heavy shadow passed over James’s face, for he saw that there must have been 
something hotter than ginger in the “ Temperance Cordial,” as it is falsely called, 
that Andrew had taken ; else he would have endeavoured to redeem lost time, 
not to waste more ; and he thought how much better the real Temperance 
Cordial was, that, instead of exciting the brain, only warms the heart. 

“ No,” he replied, after a pause, “ I must go and finish what I was about ; but 
ibis evening, at seven o’clock, meet me at the end of our lane, and then I ’ll be 
very happy of your company.” 

Andrew was sorely puzzled to discover what James’s cordial could be, and 


382 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


was forced to confess to himself, he hoped it would be different from what he 
had taken that afternoon, which certainly made him feel confused and inactive. 

At the appointed hour the friends met in the lane. 

“ Which way ao we go V 9 inquired Andrew. 

“ Home,” was James’s brief reply. 

“ Oh, you ta/ce it at home V 9 said Andrew. 

“ I make it at home,” answered James. 

“Well,” observed Andrew, “that’s very good of the woman that owns ye. 
Now, mine takes on so about a drop of anything, that she ’s as hard almost on 
the cordials as she used to be on the whiskey.” 

“ My Mary helps to make mine,” observed James. 

“And do you bottle it, or keep it on draught?’ inquired Andrew, very much 
interested in the “ cordiai” question. 

James laughed very heartily at this, and answered — 

“Oh, I keep mine on draught — always on draught; there’s nothing like hav- 
ing plenty of a good thing, so I keep mine always on draught and then James 
laughed again, and heartily. 

James’s cottage door was open, and as they approached it, they saw 7 a good 
deal of what was going forward within, A square table placed in the centre 
of the little kitchen, was covered by a clean white cloth — knives, forks, and 
plates for the wnole family, were ranged upon it in excellent order ; the teapot 
stood, triumphant, in the centre, — the hearth had been swept, the house was 
clean, the children rosy, well-dressed, and all doing something. “ Mary,” whom 
her husband had characterized as “ the patient,” was busy and bustling, in the 
very act of addingto the tea, which was steaming on the table with the sub- 
stantial accon^pfmme^rcs of fried eggs and bacon, and a large dish of potatoes. 
When the children saw their father, they ran to meet him with a great shout, 
and clung around to tell him all they had done that day. The eldest girl de- 
clared she had achieved the heel of a stocking ; one boy wanted his father to 
come and see how straight he had planted the cabbages ; while another 
avowed his profidiency in addition, and volunteered to do a sum instanter upon 
a slate he had just cleaned. Happiness in a cottage seems always more real 
than it does in a gorgeous dwelling. It is not wasted in large rooms — it is con- 
centrated — a great deal of love in a small space — a great, great deal of joy 
and hope within narrow walls, and compressed as it were, by a low roof. Is it 
not a blessed thing that the most moderate means become enlarged by the 
affections? — that the love of a peasant, within his sphere, is as deep, as fervent, 
as true, as lasting, as sweet, as the love of a prince ? — that all our best and 
purest affections will grow and expand in the poorest worldly soil ? — and that 
we need not be rich to be happy ? James felt all this and more, when he entered 
his cottage, and was thankful to God who had opened his eyes, and taught him 
what a number of this world’s gifts were within his humble reach, to be en- 
joyed without sin. He stood a poor but happy father — within the sacred 


GOOD SPIRITS AND BAD. 


383 

temple of his home ; and Andrew had the warm heart of an Irishman beating 
in his bosom, and consequently shared his joy. 

“ I told you,” said James, “ I had the true Temperance Cordial at home. Do 
you not see it in the simple prosperity by which, owing to the blessings of tem- 
perance, I am surrounded ? Do you not see it in the rosy cheeks of my chil- 
dren — in the smiling eyes of my wife ? Did I not say truly that she helped to 
make it? Is not this a true cordial?” he continued, while his own eyes 
glistened with manly tears ; “ is not the prosperity of this cottage a true Tem- 
perance Cordial ? — and is it not always on draught , flowing from an ever-filling 
fountain ? Am I not right, Andrew ; and will you not forthwith take my 
receipt and make it for yourself! You will never wish for any other; it is 
warmer than ginger and sweeter than aniseed. I am sure you will agree with 
me, that a loving wife, in the enjoyment of the humble comforts which an in- 
dustrious, sober husband can bestow, smiling, healthy, well-clad children, and a 
clean cabin, where the fear of God banishes all other fears, make 

THE TRUE TEMPERANCE CORDIAL.” 







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